Jackson Piers's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

The egg cracked in Jackson's cupped hands at dawn. He knelt beside the glass hatchery stand, where two eggs still waited in the sand. A tiny green head pushed through the shell. Wet flippers spread against his palm. This one he had guarded for weeks. Turtle Bay kills hatchlings faster than anywhere on the coast, a ranger once told him. Jackson stayed to prove he could keep even one alive long enough to swim. He carried the hatchling outside, still nestled in its broken shell. The morning was already loud. Party debris littered the sand from last night. Then he saw it. A grown sea turtle lay near the water's edge. Someone had set a red plastic cup on its shell, like a table. Two more partiers laughed and balanced their drinks there. Jackson set the cup off the turtle's back. The animal blinked and hauled itself toward the surf. He watched the cups tumble into the shallows. Foam and plastic drifted where the water was warm and calm. That water was where he would release the hatchling. One swallowed cup could kill it. Turtles mistake trash for jellyfish. He looked at the fragile creature in his hands. Not yet. He turned back to the medistation, its cross sign glowing soft against the wood. Inside, he settled the hatchling in the warm hatchery sand beside the poster of the round-eyed turtle in a life ring. "You wait," he said. "I clear the water first." He grabbed the teal recycle bin with the light arch on its handle. Then he waded in. He worked the whole day. He pulled cups from the shallows one by one. He fished out bottles, foil scraps, a tangle of ribbon that could choke a throat. His scarred arms burned. The sun climbed and dropped. The bin filled and he emptied it and filled it again. By evening the partiers had drifted toward the bonfire. The shallows lay clear. Jackson stood in water up to his knees and saw no plastic, no foam, no cup. He had counted every piece. The count was zero. He went back for the hatchling. He set it on the wet sand above the tideline, where the water lapped and pulled back. The little turtle had to crawl on its own. He would not carry it. The crawl made its flippers strong. He crouched and watched it drag toward the sea it had never seen. A wave took the hatchling and it was gone into dark water. Jackson exhaled. One alive. One swimming. Then he saw the shine offshore near the reef. A shape rose above the surface. Long hair caught the last light, and beside it floated something round and pale. Another egg. It bobbed on the current, drifting the way trash drifts, out where he could not reach it.