Chapter 3 #4
Wes propped his lens on the counter. “Cameras can be disturbing for some species, but others seem to enjoy interacting with me. A sea lion in the kelp approached this morning and stayed nearby for a solid minute. Then there was an octopus. A California two-spot, I think.”
Octopus bimaculoides.
“You saw an octopus in the bay?” As quickly as it had come, her panic faded, its energy redirected. She swallowed, breathed. “Oh. . . r-really?”
“Yeah. It was hiding in the fronds from the lion, so I couldn’t see if it had blue eyespots. The species is native to the area, though, and it was about the right size. Smart little thing, too.”
“Yes. But. . . octopuses are more than smart. Many animals are smart. Dolphins, elephants—”
“—pigs, chimpanzees, parrots, rats, and even some dogs. Not all,” he replied, rolling his eyes.
“Octopuses demonstrate future thinking,” she forged ahead under his slantwise smile.
“They can pass adaptations of the marshmallow test. Which is fascinating—and also baits researchers into anthropomorphizing them. But they’re alien to us in a way that no mammals or birds are.
They don’t even have rights under the Animal Welfare Act.
There’s pending legislation that might provide them with laboratory protections, though: the Cephalopod Sentience and Welfare Act.
Of course, I always tried to provide sufficient stimulation and to ensure they weren’t in discomfort from interactive experiments.
But those aren’t legal requirements, and labs have variable standards of care—”
“Ha! So you’ve studied octopuses?”
She stopped short. “. . . yes.”
“I bet they were studying you right back. Every time I photograph a wolf eel or a humpback whale, I know I’m being evaluated.
Even when I’m using a teleconverter to get subjects in view while keeping a safe distance.
Even when I think I’m hidden. Probably especially then.
” Grin widening, leaving his casing to dry, Wes grabbed a wallet from his duffel, tucked a set of keys into his pocket, and kicked on his sandals at the door.
He gestured for Isabel to join him on the porch.
She did, after checking on the oyster that she’d hurriedly deposited in the tank earlier, then collecting her own sandals and wringing out her wet sleeve.
“Or I should say, that’s probably true for every species except clams. No eyes, no brains.
But anyhow, I hope you’ll tell me more about your octopuses—”
She halted when he pointed to a dusty black Jeep parked down the street.
“—over breakfast.”
Oh.
No, there wasn’t time. Because she. . . she needed to find Ethan’s own keys and return the car to Palo Alto. She needed to make the right decisions about her situation with Chase, needed to—
But a single throb of warning pulsed through her temples.
. . . needed to eat.
Yes, she’d swallowed a few chocolate-covered strawberries while hunched over the bathroom sink last night.
With the cameras flashing and octopus arms lying inert on trays of bruschetta, though, she’d had no appetite for anything from the caterers at the yacht club.
Migraines had attacked her for far less than ignoring her body’s need to fuel and hydrate itself.
If she triggered that pain on an empty stomach, her recovery would be slow.
She’d never manage the drive to Palo Alto.
She’d be useless, crying on a bathroom floor, alone with her thrashing agony, then bedridden for twenty-four hours.
Helpless.
Again: no.
She gulped back a taste of bile. Bracing her shoulders, she passed through the driftwood gate after Wes, following to where he leaned through the Jeep’s driver-side window, watching her. “All right. But could we eat somewhere close by with quick service, please? I need to drive to Palo Alto.”
He cranked open the passenger door. He shrugged. “You’ll miss out on seeing MORI.”
She hitched up her sweater under the seat belt to protect her neck while he coaxed the engine into turning over. “I know.”
She’d miss out on MORI, like she’d been missing the Seattle Aquarium’s laboratory for more than two years now: the whisper of bubble curtains, the red-lit calming enclosures, counting the number of inhabitants in the cephalopod tanks (which could be challenging if the subjects had been caught wild, camouflaged against the gravel bottoms of their sumps) and the proximal populations of fish and crustaceans.
If those fish and crustacean numbers unexpectedly declined, an octopus was likely somehow squeezing through a crack in the aquarium’s security measures, carousing around the lab for snacks. . .
Humming, squinting through the fug of mizzle and dirt on his rear windows, Wes put a hand behind her headrest to back the Jeep out of its parking spot—and she startled forward, staring down at her interlaced fingers.
The hard, glittery edges of Chase’s ring dented her knuckles.
Phantom pain flickered, teasing the base of her skull.
No matter how tempting Wes’s offer to see MORI was, she didn’t have a choice.