The Quantum Hiss

The Quantum Hiss

By Mark C. Royal

Chapter One

The Starfish

It was the starfish that initially caught her eye. Ryan Hart was wading, lush palm trees to her left, turquoise and emerald ocean to the right, feeling the soft sand slip between her toes, as playful, foamy, rhythmic waves washed across her legs, onto the shore. The clear saltwater tingled on her skin, but did not sting. Below her, the starfish rolled and spun, buffeted by the gentle, sparkling waves. Perhaps dead. But then, it seemed to settle in one spot, immobile, no longer affected by the waves. She saw it move, barely, in a way that the current could not have caused, holding its ground. She stared at it.

"I… am a Starfish", she murmured.

The waves of emotional life had thrown her about for many of her twenty-four years. Each one flipping her, turning her. Men that came and went. A boy. A lover. A friend. A fling. More than she had expected, but not many. Each a wave; a wave of pain, a wave of warmth, a wave of nausea. Each had washed over her and moved on. Yet, she claimed her own ground. She had grown stronger, Ryan thought, if not wiser.

Living in the bubble of her jet-setting parents, she had been sheltered, educated, coddled, catered-to, and comforted, though not unkindly. She did not have the everyday financial cares of most people. Luck had dealt her a very fortunate hand in that and in so many other respects. But, as they say: money isn’t everything.

Out loud, she said, “Comes in real handy down here, Bub,” remembering the line about money, said by the financially desperate George Bailey to an angel, in the movie "It’s a Wonderful Life".

“How many people would be thrilled to trade places with me?”, she often wondered. Nevertheless, she hoped her quest to find purpose and meaning in life was no less valid than the next person’s. She had tried many things in her search, from ballet to Krav Maga, piano to firearms, clubbing to camping. Italian, French, and Russian. She had a musical ear, so accents and languages came naturally to her. She read more than most. Classics and trash, she read it all. She ripped through Indiana University in three years, impatient to get on with life. Finding no clear path afterwards, she went on to get her Masters in International Relations at the University of Chicago.

Since then, she had been recruited, relentlessly, by a variety of private and public companies. Yet, nothing felt completely right. The most intriguing recruitment came not from traditional businesses, but from the government. A hazard of graduating first in your Masters class at U of C, she supposed. Some of these recruiters were from alphabet agencies that operated in secret. Of course, these were her favorites.

So, here she was. In the West Indies. On a beach. Alone.

Traveling on her own often gave her the space to reconnect with the “normal” world, though it always terrified her parents. She was a natural kidnapping target, they told her. A daughter of outsized wealth. So, as a compromise with her parents, for this trip she agreed to go to the exclusive Four Seasons resort, on the island of Nevis. She was on her own, though hardly in “normal” life given the luxury and cost of her surroundings. But, at least she was alone and away. No romance to steal her attention. No one setting her up with another “great guy!” Not even her phone to distract her; she’d left it in her room on purpose. Her head was clear and she could think about more important things. She realized that, for once, she was off-the-market.

It was time to choose - to decide a path: stay in the relative safety of her wealthy bubble-world, doing as she pleased and never needing to work, or venture out into an environment that held virtually no familiarity for her. Known adventure, or unknown adventure?

Staring into the foreign world beneath the warm waves, she realized, suddenly, that the sum of her experiences had brought her to this beach, this sand, this ocean, this starfish, and this moment. Change was coming. She could feel it. Good or bad, she wasn’t sure, but she welcomed it.

"I am a Starfish", she said out loud, to the ocean, to the air, to the universe, to herself. And then she looked up.

It was the starfish that had initially caught her eye. But, what now held her attention was moving slowly, steadily toward her, from just about 40 yards down the beach.

Chapter Two

The Barn Owl

Michael Raven wasn’t taking a casual stroll on the beach. There was a girl. Wasn’t there always? His mouth curved to a wry smile.

The island of Nevis, the 36-square-mile birthplace of Alexander Hamilton in the Caribbean Sea, seemed like a perfect place to get away, regroup after divorce, detach from his work, and spend some quality time – with himself. Coral and volcanic sand beaches, smooth, soothing trade winds at the right time of year, weather that seemed to force one to slow down, and, of course, the Four Seasons resort.

His nickname was T-Bo, short for The Barn Owl. Ironic, given his last name. Years ago, early in his career, one of his clients had written an effusive thank you letter, in which she observed that Michael moved through his real estate deals with the grace and stealth of a barn owl. These owls were known, she explained in the letter, for virtually silent flight, allowing them to hear prey without noisy interference, but also to attack prey without being detected. “You listen. You plan your negotiation – your attack. And they never know what hit them. I was as riveted by your performance as I was the first time I saw, but didn’t hear, a barn owl in flight.” Boy, did that letter make the rounds in his office! And the nickname stuck.

Michael was in the business of international real estate. He was quietly successful. He was also quietly bored with real estate, and maybe pretty much with everything else, too.

Using a portion of the liquid financial resources he had left after his divorce, he’d decided to treat himself to… a treat. Pampering himself, though, was atypical. He’d always enjoyed this type of trip more as a byproduct of pleasing his wife or, before her, a girlfriend, or as part of his work. This time, it was just for him. And he could do anything he wanted. Knowing that turned out to be surprisingly unhelpful: he could do anything he wanted. But, he had no idea what that anything was.

Which is why, today, he had found himself just out of reach of the afternoon sun, under the shade of a large, red-capped, yellow umbrella. He was feet-up, sitting on a yellow and white striped towel that wrapped a comfy a lounge chair, staring out over the vast expanse of Caribbean water, with the island of St. Kitts, just 15 nautical miles off to his right. In his hand was an amazing Four Seasons concoction of rum, with rum, and, rum, and, he supposed, other stuff. He could not get over how perfectly the taste fit his surroundings. He had decided to stay in this spot, drinking and eating, through sunset.

But then the girl walked by.

Chapter Three

The Goliath Bird-Eating Spider

The hissing sound caused the two men to stop. It was a quiet hiss, but they were quiet men. The Goliath Bird-eating Spider felt threatened. It was a curious name, considering that these spiders really didn’t specialize in eating birds – maybe an occasional hummingbird, as was apparently witnessed by the explorers who named the tarantula. At twenty-two years old, living on the edge of the rainforest, bordering a large, developed estate outside of Caracas, Venezuela, this particular spider had seen plenty of prey and plenty of predators in her life. But, none like this.

The two men crouched down. Each had black bags containing zip-ties, blackout hoods for their hostages, washcloths, chloroform, and additional ammunition, should the guards put up too much of a fight.

Hector, the smaller of the two, drew his 9mm Taurus pistol from his belt. He glanced at his partner, Hilario, and asked, "What was that sound?”

Hilario shrugged, uninterested, and turned a watchful eye toward the estate that stretched nearly 300 yards from the forest to the house.

Hector kept looking for the sound, and then saw the spider. His night goggles illuminated the landscape as though it were a monochromatic gray-green dawn. The spider wasn’t hard to find. It was her size that gave her away. She had nearly the circumference of a vinyl record, measuring almost 12” in diameter. Huge, really. A spider vastly larger than anything Hector had seen before. And it scared him. He took off his goggles and clicked on a small penlight with his left hand, leaning in to get a closer look.

It moved, and hissed again. Hector poked at her with the tip of his pistol, almost unconsciously placing his finger on the trigger. In a strange display, the spider suddenly flicked her hind legs, filling the air with hundreds of tiny, barbed spindles of hair from her abdomen, like small floating arrows. In fact, these kinds of hairs were once a primary ingredient in a novelty product called “Itching Powder”. They hit the man’s eyes. While not damaging, they were profoundly irritating and caused his eyes to sting and itch almost instantly. As he recoiled and reached for his eyes… his finger squeezed the trigger.

The shot missed the spider, which scampered away. But the sound of the shot was clear, echoing throughout the grounds of the estate that they had infiltrated.

Hilario spun around. “What the hell?”

“Goddamn spider!”

“A spider?! You shot a spider?”

Their conversation was cut short by the sudden brilliance of eight, strategically-spaced, 1,000-watt floodlights. Obviously, the more important result of the gunshot was that it had effectively announced to their target that they were on the grounds of the estate. Hilario ripped his night vision goggles off.

Though it was like daylight under the lights, the two men weren’t fully exposed. The act of crouching to investigate the Goliath Bird-eating Spider had left them just inside the forest, several yards from the open ground of the estate.

Under cover of those same brilliant floodlights, two armed men, earphones and mics in their ears for communications with each other, silently slipped through doors on either side of the wide terrace that wrapped the backside of the 19th-century manor house. Their movements were efficient, choreographed and tactically precise; two, moving separately, as one. Assassins-turned-bodyguards, the two were known as the Quantum Mechanics, because of their efficiency, and complementary, yet separate actions - like entangled particles in quantum physics. Their for-hire names were Einstein and Albert, but, in fact, unknown to most, those were also their real names. They were amused by the coincidence of working together, and it was great for marketing, especially after they picked up the Quantum Mechanics label.

Behind the wall, Hilario and Hector had no idea that these few minutes of waiting were the last of their lives. They were professionals, and had a sharp eye for trouble. But, not quite sharp enough. At least, not at the Quantum level.

Twenty-five yards away, Einstein and Albert set up their shots. Time passed.

Though Hector and Hilario did not hear it, there was a new hiss from behind: that of bullets moving the air, covering the distance in less than 1/10th of a second, and of gas escaping the barrels of sound-suppressed .45 caliber KRISS Vector SMG’s. There was a flash of light, and time stopped for Hilario and Hector.

Over the coms, Albert whispered to Einstein, “Spooky action at a distance”.

Hector and Hilario’s quarry, David Hart, a billionaire of the old guard software industry, lounged inside, sipping Pisco Sours with Helen, his physicist wife of 20 years. He and she were, for the moment, blissfully unaware of the unremarkable lives leaving the unremarkable bodies, just outside.

Chapter Four

Entanglement

2,100 miles to the north of Caracas, a physicist waited for word on his two-pronged operation. When complete, he would have the Harts, their daughter, and all the leverage he needed to extract what he needed from Helen and her research. It was hard to admit, but Helen was far smarter than he was. And she was making progress at a far faster pace than he.

If Helen had really managed to entangle particles – something Albert Einstein had famously termed “Spooky action at a distance” - in such a way as to control distant light remotely, without projecting it, even at a small scale, the implications were beyond mind-blowing. Its uses would be virtually unending. He could taste the Nobel Prize… not-to-mention the money. Yes, she was the smarter physicist. It was why he had befriended the Harts, from the beginning.

Chapter Five

All-American

John Allen, not his real name, of course, had checked-in to the Hamilton Beach Villas and Spa, the night before. His “wife”, Joan, had arrived that morning. They had a room with a kitchen, which allowed them to bring in supplies and food, and keep to themselves. The staff barely noticed them, other than to note an unremarkable couple: a tall, balding, middle-class American, wearing an untucked Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts, and Adidas shoes, and an overweight dark-haired woman in absurd sunglasses, wearing a flowered Muumuu dress and all white sneakers. They were on vacation, and asking for little more of the hotel than extra washcloths and towels.

Once in the room, Joan went into the bedroom, changed out of her Muumuu, and the padded fat suit she was wearing underneath, revealing a very fit, athletic body. She put on a bathing suit, sheer coverup, and sandals, and went back to the balcony, where John stood looking to the south.

He turned, hearing her steps, and gave a half-smile. “Quite. It’s always creepy to see you fat.”

“It’s always creepy to see you stupid,” she paused a beat, adding, “But, you can’t help it.”

He laughed. “Touche.”

Their natural British accents belied their American playacting.

Staying at the Four Seasons, where their target was spending her time alone, was not an ideal option for them. Too much attention was paid to guests there, and they wanted anonymity, not just proximity. One could not hide well on an island. They wanted to make the move, tonight. No time like the present.

Chapter Five

Boy Meets Girl

Rachel watched the man slowly traverse the 40 yards of beach, seemingly headed straight towards her. Her parents’ admonishments about her safety murmured in her head, but she pushed them aside, having no inkling about what was going on at her parents’ estate, 554 miles away.

He was maybe 5’10”, but not more. Nice build. Strong legs. Long, not stocky. A mop of light hair on his head, and a slightly darker, maybe two-day growth on his face. He was carrying two glasses, and what looked to be a bottle of champagne, wrapped in a Four Seasons towel. As he got closer, she saw a determined expression, which shifted to an engaging, seemingly genuine smile. She glanced behind her, both to see if he was smiling at someone else, but also because she wanted to be sure that no one was behind her.

She immediately turned back to face him. It was now clear that the smile was meant for her.

She, on the other hand, wore a puzzled look on her face.

Then, she heard him laugh. It was infectious, and she could not keep the corners of her mouth from responding, finally smiling herself.

“You don’t think you’re worth it?” His voice was pleasant, and he had an easy manner to him.

“Worth what?”

“The champagne,” he said, as he walked up to her. “You looked like you were checking to see if I was bringing it to someone else.”

“Well… I was at least looking to see if there was someone behind… wait. Why are you bringing me champagne?”

“So, you don’t think you are worth it.”

“Of course I am. But…”.

He stopped close to her, putting down the towel-wrapped bottle, and stuck out his hand. “Hi. I’m Michael. Michael Raven. But my friends call me T-bo. What’s your name?”

He was moving this along very fast, and she was trying to get her bearings. “I’m… I'm Rachel.”

“Hello, ‘I’m Rachel’. Funny first name. Your parents do that to you?”

“Rachel?”

“I’m”.

“Funny”. She smiled, again. “How’d you get ‘T-Bo’ out of Michael?”

“It’s a champagne story”. He looked directly into her eyes, and did not waver.

“Is it, now?" She put her hand to her head and twirled the ends of her hair. "A champagne story. I’m, uh, not fully aware of those.”

“Do you have a nickname?”

“What?”

“A nickname. Something other than Rachel.”

Damn, his eyes do sparkle, she thought. Her smile became more mischievous. “I suppose so.”

“And?”

“Starfish.”

“Starfish? Where’d that come from?” He was intrigued.

“I guess it’s a champagne story.”

“Is it, now? Well, okay then.” He held the glasses out to her. “Hold these. Please.”

She did, and he picked up the towel and champagne. Pulling out the champagne, he held it out to her. “And this, too?”

She took the champagne. Roederer. “Jeeze," she said, "you always put a girl to such trouble, just to get a glass of champagne?”

“Observe”, he said. He flicked the towel downwind, and settled it onto the sand. “Please have a seat.”

Taking the bottle from her as she sat, he opened the it with practiced expertise, the cork making barely a hiss as he pulled it.

He poured each glass to about 2/3rds full and took one from her. Raising his glass, he said, “To champagne stories”.

“I’ll drink to that. In fairness, I'll drink ”

Rachel was enjoying his company, and was also annoyed that she was enjoying it so much. “I am off the market.”

“What?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I thought you said something about the market.”

“Nope”.

Chapter Six

The Puzzle

David and Helen Hart sat on soft armchairs in silence, listening to the report from their two bodyguards. The sitting room was cozy, but not ostentatious. One wall was fully glass, with an expansive view of the grounds. It was retractable and bullet-resistant, though one would not know it from casual observation. As it was a cool night, the glass was closed, and the screens were retracted. On the wall perpendicular to the glass, a fireplace glowed with a fresh set of logs.

The Quantum Mechanics laid out several pieces of the assailants’ belongings on the coffee table. David, as always, was struck by how unassuming the two bodyguards were. Nothing about them looked dangerous or threatening. To the contrary, they could have been graduate students in a computer science program. Einstein had close-cut, very red hair, though that changed regularly, a nondescript face with a button nose, and usually moved like he was bored. Albert was dark - hair and skin. He wore opaque white glasses, and medium-length hair, and was smooth as silk, graceful as a dancer. Though David knew them both well, he thought that, with simple disguises, even he might not recognize them on the street.

According to what the two bodyguards could gleen from the recovered cellphones, and handwritten notes, had things gone as the intruders planned, Einstein and Albert were to be killed. David and Helen were to be taken to New York, tonight, by private plane. Specifically where, or to whom, neither Albert nor Einstein knew. Surprisingly, the evidence seemed to point to Helen being the target. She was the one about whom the instructions were most clear. She was the one they were to assure was not hurt in any way. David had been described as a secondary target. As leverage. So, this did not seem to be about David’s money.

“Well, that’s a puzzle”, David said. Turning to his wife, “What would someone want with you?”

“A physics fanatic? Are there such things?” She shrugged.

“Well, you’re one.”

“That’s true, but I wouldn’t have any reason to kidnap some other physicist.”

Einstein broke in. “Also, it seems that there is mention of another, related operation on some island. Can’t tell which one, though, or what it has to do with you.”

“Nevis,” Helen and David said, in unison. David grabbed his phone.

Chapter Seven

Eyes of Fire

Ryan and Michael were back at the Four Seasons, under Michael’s umbrella. The champagne almost gone, they ordered sandwiches. The sun was finally making it descent toward the horizon, increasingly orange, by the minute.

Ryan was laughing. “A Barn Owl? Seriously? I bet you wanted to kill that client!”

“I told you it was a champagne story.”

A couple, obviously American, by their dress, sat down under the adjacent umbrella. They were loud, and had obviously been drinking.

Ryan and Michgael glanced at them. Then, both sat in silence for a few minutes, as they watched the sun sink into the sea. They could almost hear the hiss as the hot sun touched the water.

“Actually, it turns out, I’m kind of glad about the nickname,” Michael said, returning to the subject.

“Really….”

“Yeah. It helped me meet an intriguing woman.”

“Oh, really? When, where and who?” A smile began to form on Ryan’s face.

“In the West Indies. Just recently.” Michael stopped.

“Who…?” Ryan leaned in.

“Well, if you must know. You.”

Ryan sat back with a self-satisfied grin. “Good answer.”

There was a rustling from under the adjacent umbrella.

“You all just met?! Sorry. I couldn’t help overhearing you.” The American woman was talking. “That is so adorable!”

“Honey, leave the new friends alone. Sorry to intrude. My wife likes to talk to strangers when she drinks.” The man shifted on his chair to face Michael and Ryan.

Michael smiled, ”No harm done. Strangers become friends all the time.”

The man spoke, not as drunkenly as his wife. “I’m John. This here is my wife, Joan.”

“I’m Michael.”

“I’m Ryan. Nice to meet you both.”

“Wow!” Joan said, suddenly. “That is some bathing suit you have on. Tiny little thing. You mind standing and turning around? I think I love it. I think I might want one!”

“Honey!” John was clearly uncomfortable.

“Aw hell, John. She doesn’t mind. Do you?”

Ryan was embarrassed. She looked to Michael, who just shrugged, and turned the palms of his hands face up, in an oh-what-the-hell kind of way.

Ryan stood, and slowly turned around. The woman looked Ryan over with interest. So did her husband. Michael was also able to admire Ryan for the first time, without having to hide his glances.

“Damn, girl. I thought the suit was nice. But, I was wrong. It’s your body that makes the suit. Look at her, John. And goddamn blond hair. You ever seen such a body? Wow!” Joan looked to John.

“You’re right, honey. Well, I mean, except for yours, of course.” John seemed relieved to have thought of the right thing to say to his wife.

Joan looked at Ryan. “Isn’t he just the sweetest? That’s why I married him.”

Ryan suddenly had a funny feeling. Something about this scene was not right. But then, nothing was really wrong either.

Joan stood and walked unsteadily toward Michael and Ryan.

“Oh, my god, Joan. You are in incredible shape! I wish I were as toned as you are.” And she meant it. Joan had a body like an Olympic athlete.

“You are so sweet! But, listen,” Joan said, in a conspiratorial tone. “Can we tell you a secret?” She made an exaggerated swing of her finger to her lips.

“Sure.”

“We ain’t staying at this hotel. We’re further up, at the Hamilton.”

Michael jumped in. “Oh, that’s no problem. Can we buy you guys a drink?”

Ryan nodded. “It’s no problem. We’d be happy to.”

Joan lit up. “That is SO nice of you. But, Ryan, could you show me to the little girls room, first? I don’t want to have an accident out here.” She laughed.

“Of course.” Ryan turned to Michael. “Don’t go away.”

“After the Loo” Joan said, over her shoulder to John.

“Okay,” John responded.

“What?” Michael asked.

“I think she said, ‘off to the loo’”. John smiled.

The women wandered off toward the hotel.

Michael and John sat in silence, and watched the daylight fade.

After awhile, John shifted, uncomfortable. “Damned if I don’t have to find a men’s room, myself. Or, at least somewhere in the cover of those trees behind us. Would you mind watching our stuff, Michael. I won’t be too long.”

Michael nodded and waved John off, turning back to watch the water's color deepen to an indigo blue.

As he sat, something started to bother him. It was John and Joan. They were nice and all. But, kind of a caricature of American tourists. Suddenly, Michael stood, looking in the general direction of the hotel and its restrooms. He hesitated, but then started toward the hotel.

Inside, Joan was being her effusive, drunk self, making the move to walk with Ryan back to the beach. Joan stumbled, but righted herself, holding onto Ryan. Ryan let her, and they headed outside.

John was in the darkness of the trees, between the hotel and the beach, just off the path. In his hands was a black hood. In his left front pocket was a small bottle of chloroform. In his right was a washcloth. He could hear Joan’s voice, as they approached.

Joan stumbled, again. This time off the path, wildly, toward the trees. “S’dark out here,” she slurred.

Then she fell.

Ryan got behind Joan, put her arms under Joans armpits, pulled, and said, “Come on, Joan. Let’s get up.”

Joan began to rise. It was then that John stepped forward. Ryan did not understand the commotion, at first. Not it until a black sack was thrown over her head from behind. Joan, suddenly sober, grabbed Ryan’s arms, and pinned them to Ryan’s side. Ryan screamed. One brief scream. Meanwhile, John was quickly pouring chloroform onto the washcloth, moving close behind Ryan.

But Ryan did something unexpected. As John moved closer and began to reach his hand around her face, rather than struggle with her arms, Ryan lifted both her legs, and went straight down. Joan lost her grip on Ryan. Ryan's arms shot straight out, making contact with Joan, pushing her backwards, hard. Joan stumbled, unintentionally this time, falling back and hitting her head painfully on the ground. John bent close to put the chloroform over Ryan’s mouth, but Ryan threw her head backwards, hitting John square in the face and breaking his nose with an audible crunch.

Ryan yanked the sack from her head. Joan was getting up. John was in a rage, and lunged toward Ryan, fists balled, aiming for her head.

Michael was surprised at how hard and fast he ran into John, sending them both sprawling. John was up fast, though cloudy from the pain in his bloody face.

Michael was faster. He kicked John hard in the stomach, and as John doubled over, kicked him in the face as hard as he could. John’s head snapped back, and he went down like a stringless marionette, unconscious.

Ryan had gone straight for Joan, kicking her on the side of the head with all her might. Joan howled.

“You bitch!” Ryan screamed, and kicked Joan again.

Joan did not get up.

By now, security from the Four Season’s had arrived, taking in the scene.

Michael, breathing hard, just said, “What. The. Fuck!”

Ryan was shaking, but her green eyes were on fire.

Chapter Eight

An End and a Beginning

Up in Ryan’s room, after the police left, Ryan finally hung up from her call to her parents, and came out of the bedroom.

“Well?” Michael was waiting.

“They are okay. Apparently, they had a similar experience earlier, but couldn't reach me on the phone to warn me.” She was suddenly tired. Not sleepy. Just weary.

She sat on the couch and patted the cushion next to her.

“Sit, Michael.”

Michael didn’t sit. He walked to the table, unscrewed the Jameson Caskmate whiskey bottle he requested, put ice in two glasses, and poured. He carried the glasses to the couch and sat by Ryan.

“Irish whiskey to the rescue.” He gave her the glass.

She took a long pull at the amber liquid, swallowed, and took a deep breath.

“Michael? What are your plans?”

“What do you mean? When?”

“Now. And, you know, soon.” She looked at him intently.

“Tonight? Stay with you, as long as you need me to. And, after that… not a lot. Why?”

“I’ll need you here with me, all night. I do not know what would have happened to me if not for you.”

Michael laughed. “You were holding your own pretty damned well!”

“Michael?” She looked at him, searching, evaluating, hoping.

“Yes?”

“This thing isn’t over. Someone was behind this. But… I think…."

"You think...?" Michael squinted at her.

"I think that you need to meet my parents.”

"Well, that's not at all what I thought you were going to say." Michael put his arm around Ryan and pulled her close. “Are they here?”

“No. We’d have to fly there.” Ryan snuggled closer.

“Well, if that’s what you think. Are you okay?”

“They wanted to maybe kill me. But, honestly, that isn’t the scary part,” she said.

“What is?”

“The scariest part is that in some recess of my mind, that was exhilarating. I felt… powerful.” She searched his eyes. “Remember when I told you that I was being recruited, including by certain, you know, agencies?”

“Yes….”

“I think I know what I want to do. Finally. I think I see what I can do. The difference I can make.”

“So, the Starfish has found her place?”

“I might need a Barn Owl to give me air cover, sometimes.”