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.

The pale egg drifted past the reef, riding a current toward open water. Jackson watched from the shallows. He knew the reef line. Past it, the seabed dropped and the waves ran hard. He could not wade there. If the egg cracked out past the barrier, the hatchling inside would spill into deep water with nothing to shield it. He had minutes, maybe less. He pulled his vest off and dropped it on the wet sand. He swam. Each stroke carried him past the calm water into the swell. The egg bobbed ahead, spinning on the current, always a little farther. His scarred arms burned. He kicked harder. The reef fell away below him, dark and toothed. He reached the egg just as a wave lifted it. He dove under it, cupped it in both hands, and turned it against his chest. Then he swam back, slow now, guarding the shell from every wave. He stumbled onto the sand and stood, dripping, the egg held tight. He carried it up to the medistation, past the tilted palm strung with party lights. The glowing cross sign buzzed above the door. Inside, the white tile floor spread out beneath him, dotted with small green turtles. He set the egg on the examination table. The glass panels caught the light. He wiped his hands, then reached for the shelf of swabs and bandages. From the drawer he took a stethoscope. He pressed the flat end against the shell and held his breath. At first, nothing. He moved the cup lower. Then he heard it. A faint, quick beat, no louder than a moth against glass. Alive. He closed his eyes for a second. The shell was whole. No cracks ran through it. He turned it in his hands and checked every inch. He carried the egg to the hatchery stand. Behind the glass, warm sand waited. He made a hollow with two fingers and settled the egg down into it, deep enough to hold, shallow enough to breathe. He banked the sand around its sides. The warmth would keep the heartbeat going. He watched it a moment, then sealed the glass. He stepped back. The egg sat safe in the sand, out of the water, out of the current.