Rhodoreef

7. The Little Angler

The sun beamed down and painted the seas a brilliant blue. The neighborhood basked in the sleepy lull of Saturday afternoon, except for the fishes that darted about, their vibrant hues popping out amidst the pinks of the coral walls.

Outside Dea's house, the sea cow whirled around and rubbed against the dome's glass, emitting a volley of clicks.

"Burpy, stop!" Dea laughed, the sound bubbling away in the calm waters. "It's just a collar. It's going to be a bit itchy till you get used to it."

She reached out and scratched his neck under the collar—a black band studded with pink starfish. Satisfied chirps emanated from the chubby animal. Then he rolled over.

"I'm going on a long trip tomorrow, so you're going to have to behave, okay?" She giggled and rubbed the ample tummy. "Hima's gonna look after you. You like her, don't you?"

A squeaky bark came in response.

Dea flung her arms around the cow's wide girth and gave him a squeeze. The preparations for her upcoming quest had eaten up her entire morning. Now that everything was set, a maelstrom swirled inside—ranging from fear to elation.

Burpy seemed to appreciate the hug, judging by another bark. Dea mimicked it and burst into gurgles of laughter.

"Dea?" Gramma's voice called. "Are you back early?"

"I didn't go to class today, Gramma. I dropped by school to collect something."

"Collect what? Come inside, child. I can barely hear you."

"Just this permit for my FYP," Dea said with an air of nonchalance as she swam into the airlock.

"What was that?"

"Permit for my FYP."

"Permit?" A pot clattered in the kitchen, announcing Gramma's post-lunch cleanup. "For what?"

Dea kicked her tail flukes to stay vertical while the water drained from the chamber. "I just have to visit this factory up north to gather data."

"I don't like this at all," Gramma grumbled. "It's not safe to venture out with those humans infesting the seas."

"It's not far..."

"What kind of project are you doing?"

Dea scrunched up her face while the cogs turned in her brain. "It's, um, on modern factory automation and its effects on the job market."

Another clatter rippled out from the kitchen. When the airlock 's inner doors slid open, Dea drifted into the living room—a tiny space largely occupied by a worn, grey watercouch.

"You had no other topic for this thesis?" Gramma asked, emerging from the kitchen. "It had to be about...factories?"

Dea shrugged and weaved past the couch on her way to her room.

"Wait just a minute, young lady."

"Huh?"

"With all that you've been up to this week—the cyclone on Tuesday and—"

"That was Monday, Gramma."

"Was it, now?" Gramma plopped down on the couch with a sigh, and the water-filled cushion sagged under her weight. "I didn't get a chance to speak to you about your birthday."

"Oh." Dea furrowed her brow. "What about it?"

"I can't believe your birthday is tomorrow..." The old merwoman shook her head, gray bun jiggling with the motion. "And you're all grown-up now. It was like yesterday that you were a pipsqueak the size of an otter."