Chapter 29
We spend the rest of the morning hiking trails that coil through lava fields and thickets of endemic flora, keeping our eyes peeled for giant tortoises, finches, and the occasional marine iguana that might’ve wandered inland, basking like little prehistoric kings.
Every creature we see feels mythic—like they belong more to story than science.
I’ve read Darwin’s Voyage of the Beagle twice and highlighted so much of On the Origin of Species the pages are practically neon, but hearing Holden and Dr. Kymbert add their own observations makes it all feel new again.
“That one,” Dr. Kymbert says, pointing toward a dome-shelled tortoise chewing slowly on a low cactus pad, “is likely from the Santa Cruz population. Shorter neck, rounded shell. They evolved to browse vegetation closer to the ground.”
“Unlike the ones on Espanola,” Holden adds beside Tristan, “which developed saddleback shells and longer necks to reach taller shrubs. Same ancestral lineage—radically different forms depending on the environment.”
I raise a brow. “Niche differentiation. Natural selection’s greatest hits, volume one.”
Holden gives me a side-smile. “Darwin didn’t actually know what species the tortoises were when he first arrived. He was more focused on the finches, but it was the mockingbirds that tipped him off.”
“Which no one talks about enough,” I reply. “Finches get all the glory.”
“They have better PR,” he says, smirking, then points to a bird perched on a twisted branch nearby. “That one’s probably a cactus finch. See the long beak?”
“It’s wild how different they look just island to island,” Emma says. “Like nature was playing a slow-motion game of what if.”
Dr. Kymbert turns from where she’s sketching a tortoise shell in her notebook. “And still is. Evolution doesn’t stop—it just quiets when we stop paying attention.”
We eventually say goodbye to Floreana, boarding the speedboat back to San Cristóbal—the reigning sea lion kingdom—and pile into the island’s tiny airport.
It’s the kind of place where one runway rules all, and you can see the entire thing the second you step inside.
A few short strides and you’ve cleared customs.
Our bags go through the organic material scanner, the same way they did when we first arrived.
Nothing from the islands leaves with us—no coral, no volcanic rock, not even a grain of sand.
Imagine an ecosystem so delicately calibrated that one invasive seed, one unintended microbe, could unspool centuries of equilibrium?
Yeah. Dr. Kymbert knew exactly what she was doing bringing us here.
While we wait for our flight, I sit cross-legged near the gate with Emma and Chloe, deep in one final debate about the infamous chickens of Hawai‘i. Both of them confirm—yes, they’re real, and yes, they’re everywhere.
On sidewalks, on beaches, in the middle of the road like they own it.
I truly wasn’t hallucinating the few times I’ve seen them.
“They’re descendants of junglefowl brought over by ancient Polynesians,” Emma says.
“And later they bred with domestic chickens from settlers,” Chloe adds.
As if summoned by the academic gods, Dr. Kymbert walks over just then, her coffee sloshing slightly in a reusable cup.
“Hurricanes in the ’80s and ’90s ripped through backyard coops and released thousands of domestic chickens into the wild, too, which is why they’re everywhere.”
She stays there with us, one eyebrow raised, waiting for the moment the facts settle in.
We all blink up at her.
“That… explains so much,” I say.
Emma squints. “So the chickens are like… a feathery example of colonization and climate disaster all in one?”
“Basically,” Dr. Kymbert says, and smiles. “Also a pretty solid example of evolutionary chaos. The Galápagos are delicate because they’ve been protected. But Hawai‘i’s been disrupted over and over again. You can see it in the plants, the birds, even the bugs.”
She sits on the bench next to us.
“Did you know,” she adds, “Hawai‘i has lost more native bird species than anywhere else on the planet?”
We all fall quiet.
“Which,” she says, “is exactly why we do this kind of work.”
I glance out toward the runway, the volcanic ridges of the island just beyond it. This place changes you—quietly, slowly, then all at once. And the chickens in Hawai‘i? They make a lot more sense now.
The professor turns to me. “Coralie, could I have a word?”
I nod and follow her through the low hum of the airport, stealing glances at the small terminal windows to make sure our flight isn’t ready for boarding. She stops just outside, near a mosaic orca sculpture—its ceramic tiles glinting faintly under the overcast sky—and faces me fully.
“How was your time here?” she asks. Her voice is calm, but I can tell it’s a warm-up, not the main act.
“It was incredible,” I answer honestly. “Thank you again for letting me be part of it.”
She nods slowly, then crosses her arms with the kind of grace only she can pull off—soft-spoken, elegant, yet radiating the kind of authority no one dares challenge.
“I’m glad to hear that.” A pause. Then: “How would you feel about another opportunity?”
The corners of her mouth lift, just slightly, and my pulse skips. She continues before I can say a word.
“There’s a project coming up in O?ahu—mercifully close to campus—focused on the ecological impact of coral loss in benthic-organism-dense zones. I’ve been meaning to bring a student on board, and your name came up more than once. From my own observations, yes, but also through effusive praise.”
My breath catches. “I—yes. I’d be honored. Absolutely honored.”
I sound a little breathless, maybe even dazed, but she only seems amused by my enthusiasm. She offers a small, knowing nod.
“I thought you might feel that way. I’ll send you a full brief when we’re back at the university—scope, deliverables, timeline. Take your time before giving me an official yes.”
She extends her hand and I shake it, the weight of it grounding and thrilling all at once. I want to promise her right here and now that I’m all in, but before I can speak again, her expression shifts—more thoughtful, more precise—and she holds on to my hand just a second longer than necessary.
And then she says, “One more thing—”
Her grip tightens imperceptibly—enough to make me pause—and her gaze sharpens the way it does right before she delivers hard truths wrapped in soft tones.
“I also want to say this now, before we’re back on campus, where things tend to get... muddied,” she says. “You’re incredibly capable, Coralie. Curious, methodical, inventive. The work you did here—your instincts in the field, your adaptability—it all stood out.”
My cheeks heat, not just from the humidity.
“But,” she adds, and there it is—that inevitable conjunction that always signals a shift in gravity. “In this field, perception can matter just as much as performance. Sometimes more.”
I look at her, unsure what she means exactly, but the tightening of her jaw suggests she she’s about to let me know.
“We can’t afford to be messy. Or impulsive. Or even interesting, sometimes. There’s a version of us that makes people comfortable, and we have to fit it. We have to be sharp but polite, driven but not aggressive, brilliant but never too confident about it.”
Her eyes meet mine with unsettling calm.
“People like me… we had to learn that early. If there’s even the shadow of a question—about our choices, our relationships, our motives—it’s enough to close doors you’ll never even see were once open.”
She’s not angry. Not judging. If anything, she sounds almost… resigned.
“This is a prestigious opportunity, Coralie. And you’ve earned it. But perception matters. And the truth is, women in science don’t get to just be scientists. We have to be palatable. Impeccable. Above suspicion. Always.”
I want to say something. I want to ask why we still play by these rules. Why we have to keep smiling as we shrink ourselves down to fit some ideal that was never built for us in the first place. But I just nod.
“I understand,” I say.
She gives a small, approving smile, then turns toward the terminal. I follow her inside, even though something heavy has settled in my chest. Something quiet and splintering.
Because she meant it as advice. As protection. And that’s what makes it worse.
It’s the oldest equation: woman + brilliance ≠ enough. There’s always something else to subtract.
And part of me wonders—if I keep walking the line she just drew, how much of myself will I have to shave off to stay balanced?