Forty-Five
Tiamat Mea Fortitudinem
When Finan said I am wicked with spreadsheets, he wasn’t wrong. With breaks only long enough for Humboldt and me to manage our bladders and grumbling bellies, I’m three-quarters through the settler files when my phone buzzes against my desktop at 5:02 p.m.
We’re leaving Horseshoe Bay. See you in 60 or so.
Motor safely. Bring me an orca—I need a hug.
An orca would love to hug you … with its teeth.
They don’t hunt humans.
No, but they’d make an exception. You are very tasty.
Perv.
Not a perv. Truth teller.
The spreadsheet open on my huge screen contains baseline identifying information for nearly all the settlers, but upon scanning through it, my eyes cross. Nothing in these files indicates that anyone on the island is involved in anything untowar
