“Tell me how you survived the whale attack,” the reporter said.
Not this again. I sank back into the couch cushions and rubbed my face.
“That’s not the real story,” I told him. I could hardly believe what had actually happened.
He leaned in. “Then tell me the real story. That’s why I’m here. As I explained, I’m writing a series about survivors—kids like you—who made it home alive after a life-threatening experience. I want to hear about that afternoon while you were on vacation. You and Marina were the only ones who didn’t make it to the life rafts.”
He glanced over his shoulder toward the kitchen. The smell of peanut butter cookies drifted toward us.
“I want to hear the truth so young people who read these survivor diaries can learn from you. There aren’t many eleven-year-olds who’ve had an experience like yours.”
He placed his phone on the coffee table between us and pressed Record. “So, Travis, how did you survive?”
I stared at the bald man sitting in my living room. He was asking me to talk about the worst moments of my life.
I blew out a breath. “I didn’t even know what was going on at first. Marina just yelled the warning and then the next thing you know I’m in the water. Everything was crazy loud. You know that bubbly kind of sound you hear underwater? Except not the peaceful kind like when you’re swimming. It was even worse on the surface with the waves smacking me in the face and the wind howling and people screaming and . . .”
“No, no.” He scratched at his tiny beard on his chin. “I want you to start at the beginning. The whole story. Take your time.”
I took a sip from my lemonade. “It all started with the whales.”