Free Promises to Keep by Nikki Sex, Zachary J. Kitchen Page B

exactly where it was all along—which I guess they did. Like you said
in one of your letters. We all come from the sea and the ocean is our mother,
right? That's what these turtles were like. They knew exactly where they
belonged. They were like little lost kids running to their mother.
    It
was a rough trip for some of them. There were rocks, sticks and stuff in the
way. They'd go over, around and through anything that got in their way to get
back to the sea—their mother.
    I
felt as if I knew how they felt. They just wanted to be free and to swim all
around the world. I feel like that sometimes. I want to be free and go wherever
I want, whenever I want.
    I
was watching them and I noticed a couple of gulls fly down and snatch up a
turtle in their beaks. It seemed so unfair. The turtles just wanted to be free
and here come some jerks who want to stop them, to use them and to kill them.
    That
made me really mad. It wasn't right, so I ran at the birds and waved my arms
and chased them off.
    They
tried to come back so I chased them away and sprinted up and down the beach
where the turtles were, waving my arms like a crazy person, until they'd all
gotten into the water safely.
    I
was about to go home—I was tired from all of the running and yelling. I stopped
to look into the hole before I left. There was one baby turtle who couldn't get
out. She was in there all by herself, trapped in the middle of all of the
eggshells. She couldn't get herself out of the hole.
    It
was as if she was stuck in this pile of garbage, you know? Every time she made
it up to the side of the hole, the sand would give a little and she'd slide
back into that pile of eggshells. That wasn't fair. She struggled so hard.
    There
was this little girl, who was just trying to get out and have a life, you know?
Everything was stacked against her: sticks, rocks and even hungry birds. It was
as if she was jinxed.
    Right
then, I could identify with that unlucky little turtle.
    I
think it's illegal, but I didn't care. I picked up that turtle and carried her
over to the water. I waded out until I was waist deep and I let her go so far
out that she was already ahead of her brothers and sisters.
    I
thought that might even things up for her. She looked so happy when she swam
away. It was where she belonged. It felt so good to give the sweet little thing
the break she deserved, you know? I think we can all use a little help now and
again.
    Anyway,
stay safe and come back home in one piece. We’re all rooting for you guys out
there.
    Laura.
    Jack
folded the letter and put it back in his pocket. He lay back and looked at the
canvas ceiling above.
    Laura
was definitely a sensitive soul. An idealist who obviously cared, almost in a
childish way. He smiled as he imagined her soaking wet and covered with sand,
running and flailing her arms while shouting at the birds.
    It
touched him that she felt concern for the little things.
    Most
people would've just walked on by. They wouldn’t have noticed, or they wouldn’t
have wanted to get involved.
    Jack
recalled his mom. She’d been a strong woman, but also passionate and kind. She
would have rescued the turtles, too.
    That
was the thing about women. The best of them—like Laura— cared.
    Jack
sensed her pain. It was barely hidden by her writing. It let him see just a
glimpse of something deep inside of her, and he wasn't exactly sure what it
was. Her husband’s death would be the obvious answer, but he wasn't too certain
that was the whole story.
    What
was going on over there? Jack was curious about her and her life. He wanted to
get to know her better. It was frustrating to care about somebody and be so far
away. He wanted to be there for her, to help her—just as her letters had been
helping him through the tougher times that he'd been facing.
    This
growing attraction for a woman he’d never met disturbed him. Jack felt
extremely conflicted. He had to see her, to return the ring… but that wasn’t
why he wanted to see