Free Returning to Shore by Corinne Demas

leaning over by the side of the car the night before, clutching his chest.
    â€œI found a new nest this morning,” he said. “I put a stick there to mark it but we’ll go together now and set up the cage.”
    Clare ran upstairs to grab her sunglasses and then she and Richard hiked out to the beach. Richard was carrying the cage, and he’d given her a stake with a blue flag on the top. She felt like a kid in a parade.
    Richard set down the cage at the base of the low dunes near the boathouse, then led Clare down towards the water. “Here are the tracks,” he said. “This is how I found the nest.” He pointed out the J-shaped prints set about eight inches apart, made by the turtle’s feet, and the straight line in the center made by her dragging tail. “She came up from the water right here, made her way up the beach,” said Richard. Clarefollowed the tracks just behind Richard. She would never have noticed them if she hadn’t known what she was looking for.
    In the grassy area on top of the low dunes the tracks seemed to end. “Here’s a false nest,” said Richard. “She dug her hole, didn’t like it, and moved on.” They followed the tracks farther along. Eventually Richard stopped. “Here’s the spot,” he said.
    The slight disturbance in the sand could have been anything. It certainly wasn’t easy to read the few clues, to imagine that this was a place where a turtle had dug a hole, laid her eggs, and buried them all neatly, covering the spot so there were few traces visible.
    â€œIs there really something down there?” Clare asked.
    Richard knelt in the sand and started scooping away the sand. “Take a look,” he said.
    In a depression, about half a foot underground, there was a clutch of small pale eggs. Richard lifted one carefully. “Hold out your hand,” he said. He laid the egg gently in Clare’s palm. She touched it cautiously with her finger. It wasn’t like a bird’s egg, but something that seemed more alive, with a shell thatwas soft and translucent.
    â€œIt’s amazing a baby turtle’s inside here.”
    â€œIt will be.”
    Clare laid the egg down with the others, and she and Richard covered them up with the sand, just as the mother turtle had done. Richard set the cage over the spot and buried its rim, and Clare poked the stake into the sand. The blue flag fluttered.
    â€œAt the end of summer the hatchlings will peck their way out of those eggs,” said Richard, “and make their way down to the marsh.”
    â€œHow will they get out of the cage?”
    â€œWe check the nest sites every day and lift the cages off when the hatchlings emerge.”
    Clare ran her finger along the wire of the cage. She was glad it was there, keeping the eggs safe until they were ready.
    Richard was looking out at the water. He turned to her now.
    â€œAbout last night,” he said. “I want to explain it to you. Do you know anything about panic attacks?”
    â€œSort of.”
    â€œThey can be triggered by associations. When Isaw the mailbox and the kid on the bike, it brought back something that happened—it’s not something I tell most people, but it’s something I think you should know.” He hesitated, and Clare could see that he was taking a moment to work out his wording in his head. When he continued, he spoke quickly, as if he were reciting, for the first time, something he’d learned by heart.
    â€œA friend of mine commuted to work by bicycle. He had just gotten home and was standing over his bicycle getting his mail out of the mailbox. A car was speeding along the road and hit him. Killed him. End of story.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” said Clare.
    â€œYup,” said Richard. He stood up and brushed the sand from his hands.

12
    In the afternoon Richard had work he wanted to do at his desk. Clare said she was fine going to the