called the cops on them. If this place is unoccupied, they can poach more easily. And if that’s why they’re doing it, we have an extra motive to stop them.” Hetakes a giant bowl from the shelf, and starts scooping the chopped watermelon into it.
I consider his ideas, toss a chunk of butter into the frying pan, then watch it slide and bubble. “But wouldn’t the volunteers stop them anyway?”
He frowns. “Whoever was scheduled the night we were there obviously didn’t show. Or wasn’t doing their job. Or else was cooperating with the poachers. Or maybe they themselves were the poachers.”
“You’ve really been thinking about this, huh?” It seems like overkill to me, this conspiracy theory stuff. For all we know, the volunteer was sick that night. I just ask, “What time should we go to the Turtle Center?”
He shrugs. “Later this morning?”
I pour in the egg mixture, watch as it slowly firms. I mentally shuffle through my plans for the day. I don’t mind an excuse for putting off my world history homework. “Okay. After breakfast.”
Wendell looks pleased as he sticks a spoon in the bowl of watermelon.
I whisk the eggs, adding a few pinches of salt. I don’t mention that I’d still cast my vote for the jaguar lady as the guilty party. But a visit to the Turtle Center is more palatable than the other option—going into the Forbidden Territory. Of course, it’s all a matter of procrastination. If we’re going to run these cabanas for years, we’ll have to meet the neighbor sooner or later.
After washing breakfast dishes, Wendell and I walk down the dirt hill and turn right onto the paved main street. The Turtle Center is just a few blocks farther along the road. On the way, we pass Don Ernesto the butcher and Doña Elisa the tortilla lady and El Loco the dreadlocked fisherman. At first I’m worried they might hold it against us that we live on supposedly cursed land, but they each smile and nod in greeting.
El Loco even waves us over. Holding a giant conch shell out to me, he says in his rough voice, “I found this. Thought you might like it.”
I take it, hold it in my hands, study the smooth pink spiral interior. “Thanks,” I say, surprised.
He shrugs a shoulder, looks at us through black dreads laced with a few white hairs. “You’re my new best customers. Have to keep you coming back, right?”
Wendell asks, “Hey, you happen to know where the police station is?”
“Why?” El Loco’s eyebrows shoot up. “Everything all right?”
I realize that the locals have probably just been waiting for something to go wrong at our cabanas. I imagine this is how rumors spread. I give Wendell a warning glance.
He says vaguely, “Just some trouble with poaching is all.” Thankfully, he doesn’t mention the curse.
But El Loco lets his gaze linger, obviously concerned. “The station’s just down the block,” he says, pointing to a side street. Then he warns,
“Tengan cuidado.”
“Of course,” I assure him as I hold the shell nervously.Now, after the curse, these warnings have more weight behind them. They’re harder to shake off.
We give him the fist bumps that the hippie beach bums around here favor, then head toward the police station.
It only takes three minutes to reach the station, a low, dirty pink cement building. Inside, there’s a single room with two unfinished-wood desks and two ancient computers and a few dinged-up gray file cabinets. A single door leads back to what must be a holding cell. A fan spins and clicks overhead, making the worn curtains rise and fall.
Two officers sit at the desks, one about fifty years old, with a mustache and stout build, the other thinner, and not much older than me and Wendell. The younger one is fiddling with his cell phone—texting, maybe—and immediately drops his gaze back to his device. We stand there awkwardly until the older one gets up. “I’m Officer Contreras,” he says, gesturing to two wooden chairs. “But
I consider his ideas, toss a chunk of butter into the frying pan, then watch it slide and bubble. “But wouldn’t the volunteers stop them anyway?”
He frowns. “Whoever was scheduled the night we were there obviously didn’t show. Or wasn’t doing their job. Or else was cooperating with the poachers. Or maybe they themselves were the poachers.”
“You’ve really been thinking about this, huh?” It seems like overkill to me, this conspiracy theory stuff. For all we know, the volunteer was sick that night. I just ask, “What time should we go to the Turtle Center?”
He shrugs. “Later this morning?”
I pour in the egg mixture, watch as it slowly firms. I mentally shuffle through my plans for the day. I don’t mind an excuse for putting off my world history homework. “Okay. After breakfast.”
Wendell looks pleased as he sticks a spoon in the bowl of watermelon.
I whisk the eggs, adding a few pinches of salt. I don’t mention that I’d still cast my vote for the jaguar lady as the guilty party. But a visit to the Turtle Center is more palatable than the other option—going into the Forbidden Territory. Of course, it’s all a matter of procrastination. If we’re going to run these cabanas for years, we’ll have to meet the neighbor sooner or later.
After washing breakfast dishes, Wendell and I walk down the dirt hill and turn right onto the paved main street. The Turtle Center is just a few blocks farther along the road. On the way, we pass Don Ernesto the butcher and Doña Elisa the tortilla lady and El Loco the dreadlocked fisherman. At first I’m worried they might hold it against us that we live on supposedly cursed land, but they each smile and nod in greeting.
El Loco even waves us over. Holding a giant conch shell out to me, he says in his rough voice, “I found this. Thought you might like it.”
I take it, hold it in my hands, study the smooth pink spiral interior. “Thanks,” I say, surprised.
He shrugs a shoulder, looks at us through black dreads laced with a few white hairs. “You’re my new best customers. Have to keep you coming back, right?”
Wendell asks, “Hey, you happen to know where the police station is?”
“Why?” El Loco’s eyebrows shoot up. “Everything all right?”
I realize that the locals have probably just been waiting for something to go wrong at our cabanas. I imagine this is how rumors spread. I give Wendell a warning glance.
He says vaguely, “Just some trouble with poaching is all.” Thankfully, he doesn’t mention the curse.
But El Loco lets his gaze linger, obviously concerned. “The station’s just down the block,” he says, pointing to a side street. Then he warns,
“Tengan cuidado.”
“Of course,” I assure him as I hold the shell nervously.Now, after the curse, these warnings have more weight behind them. They’re harder to shake off.
We give him the fist bumps that the hippie beach bums around here favor, then head toward the police station.
It only takes three minutes to reach the station, a low, dirty pink cement building. Inside, there’s a single room with two unfinished-wood desks and two ancient computers and a few dinged-up gray file cabinets. A single door leads back to what must be a holding cell. A fan spins and clicks overhead, making the worn curtains rise and fall.
Two officers sit at the desks, one about fifty years old, with a mustache and stout build, the other thinner, and not much older than me and Wendell. The younger one is fiddling with his cell phone—texting, maybe—and immediately drops his gaze back to his device. We stand there awkwardly until the older one gets up. “I’m Officer Contreras,” he says, gesturing to two wooden chairs. “But
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