“Come back!” Samir calls, but he’s shirtless and barefoot and the pavement is swimming in heat haze.
I don’t look back. I keep running.
THE LAST DAY
Migration day is always chaos: cleaning and packing and preparing. Father spends the morning answering emails and setting up auto-replies, prepaying bills and turning off our cell service. (My phone has been off since yesterday. I couldn’t stand it if Samir tried to call.)
After lunch, Father comes to braid my hair for the journey. He sits behind me, humming a traveling song as he works, and I harmonize with him for a few bars until he pauses.
“Your voice is getting stronger.”
I shrug.
“Maybe you can join the chorus this year.”
“Really?” That’s the most important part of summer migration: when the whole pod heads to the Arctic Circle to sing strength into the ice and preserve as much albedo as possible.
Humans act like they’re the only species on the planet that matters.
Mother has spent the morning packing and repacking my satchel for me: a waterproof pouch with protein bars, a fake ID, and a few pieces of human clothing, in case I end up on land. No one wants to come ashore naked like some sort of pervert.
Mother pops her head in. She’s got the same bronze hair and sky-blue eyes as Ryan. Father says the first time they met, every other noise went silent except for the sound of her voice. I thought he was being hyperbolic, but after Samir, I think maybe he was telling the truth.
“What about toothpaste? Should I pack some?”
“It’s for emergencies, love,” Father says with a laugh. They have this discussion every year. “He won’t need toothpaste.”
He takes up his humming again as he finishes my braids.
“What if Dylan meets someone?” Mother ducks into my bathroom. “You want him to have bad breath?”
Father laughs, but my own humming becomes dissonant.
You can’t lie in Orocan.
Father’s hands pause. “Dylan?”
My throat clamps shut.
“Hey, are these new?” Mother emerges from the bathroom holding the green trunks from yesterday. (I plan to ask Ryan to return them for me. Once I reach international waters.) When she sees me staring at the bed, she asks, “Dylan?”
My heart gives a painful stab. Thinking of Samir makes me focus on the bond, that empty place inside me where Samir belongs. I screw my eyes shut.
“What’s wrong, Little Song?” Mother asks. My parents haven’t called me that since I was a kid. When she rests her hand on my cheek, the wave breaks.
Through my sobs, I tell them everything: the stolen tequila and the party boat. The rescue and the messed-upbinding. The Corn Dog Cart and the pool. Samir and Carter.
Mother listens quietly as I cry. Father hums a soothing melody and rubs my back.
“It’s not fair,” I croak out. “He didn’t mean to bind me. I didn’t mean to fall in love with him.”
“I know, Dylan,” Father says. “I’ve never heard of something like this happening before.”
I turn to Mother. She’s used to Father being gone three months out of the year. She knows what it feels like. “Is it always going to hurt like this?”
Mother doesn’t answer. She just rests her palm against my forehead, meets my pleading eyes with a sad smile.
That’s answer enough.
