“It’s not just about finding it,” she said, tapping a weathered map. “It’s about not drowning before we do.”
She gestured to her camera, then pointed upward. I have what I came for. Saavira Gungali-Pramod Maravanthe-Joe Costa-Pri...
Pri reached for it.
Saavira’s hand clamped over Pri’s wrist. For a long moment, they hung there, eye to eye through their masks. Then Pri smiled—a strange, sad smile—and pulled back. “It’s not just about finding it,” she said,
Pri wrung out her hair. “No. I’m a historian. My grandmother was Afonso Costa’s daughter—Joe’s great-aunt. She never knew her father. I wanted to see his grave before anyone else.” She looked at Joe. “And I wanted to see if you deserved to know the truth.” Pri reached for it
“If we’re doing this,” Pri said, her voice low, “we do it my way. No shouting. No heroics. The currents shift every fifteen minutes.”