8

 

HURRICANE POINT, CALIFORNIA, FRIDAY AFTERNOON

Gwen rang Joaquin in Peru.

“Hey, flaco, go buy yourself a beer, a new sweatshirt.”

“Beer is on my list, flaca. What’s wrong with my sweatshirt?”

“It’s lonely. You’re the only gay guy I know with an unfilled wardrobe. Listen, we got funding!”

“Awesome!”

Gwen laughed as Joaquin belted out a glorious roar.

“How is it over there?” she asked when he’d calmed down.

“Well, last night eight tiles blew off my roof, two days ago a coupla surf tourists drowned getting suckered by a rogue wave forty feet high at least, we lost five more sensors and buoys and the sensors we have left are all still screaming their warnings. I daren’t go out deep to check on the far offshore sensors, three of which I think have gone psycho. We got hit with three humongous thunderstorms in the last week, and I don’t fancy getting my ass fried or drowned.”

“Jeez. Stay close to shore Joaquin. We’ll worry about those deep-water sensors later. As soon as I get my money, I’ll order all the new kit and we can review things then.”

“Move it, chica. This thing is changing week to week. We need the sensors, like, now.”