“Margo Vasquez. Party of one.”
“No-show,” he said quietly. “Name of Kowalski. Booked four seats. Only three got on. You’re in.”
Cruz tilted the screen toward the sunrise. “This says standby. Ma’am, standby isn’t a seat. It’s a prayer. We’ve got forty-two people on the waitlist today. Spring break. Calm seas. Everyone wants Fort Jefferson.”
Margo felt the weight of her father’s ashes in her backpack—a small wooden box he’d carved himself, back when his hands still worked. She was supposed to scatter them from the ferry’s top deck, just as the fort came into view. He’d visited once in 1984 and never stopped talking about the nurse sharks in the moat.