Bright afternoon light on the deck of a small research vessel somewhere in open ocean, deep blue water stretching to every horizon. Sue stands at the stern railing in her diving suit with her helmet tucked under one arm, looking down at the water with the expression of someone who has thought this through completely and is going anyway. Her canvas satchel is clipped to her suit. Behind her on the deck, Tandy is mid-waddle toward the railing, briefcase in hand, one tiny sequined sandal lying forgotten on the weathered wooden planks. Research equipment clutters the background — coils of rope, a depth gauge, a folded rubber raft. Late-afternoon sunlight catches the brass compass in Sue's other hand, throwing a warm gold arc across the deck railing.
Our Path

Sue and the Shoes at the Bottom of the Sea

The map arrived on a Tuesday, which is not a great day for maps. They usually come on Saturdays, with drama. Sue read it three times over breakfast, cross-referencing the depth markings against her coastal survey charts. The Maravella. Lost in 1689. Carrying, according to every historian who'd wasted their career on it, "the greatest treasure ever assembled." Previous expeditions: fourteen. Successful recoveries: zero. Sue circled the coordinates in red. Tandy rolled over from the corner, briefcase already open. He'd been trying to sell shoes to the harbor seagulls since dawn and looked both optimistic and deeply demoralized. "ADVENTURE?" Tandy guessed, yellow eyes flickering. "Adventure," Sue confirmed. She grabbed her compass. Tandy snapped the briefcase shut — mostly — one tiny sequined sandal escaping to the floor, unnoticed. By noon they were on a boat. By three o'clock, Sue was in a diving suit, staring down at very deep, very dark water. "Into the deep end," she told herself. Which was, she immediately realized, an extremely accurate description of the problem.