“She had arrived at Cannon Beach two days ago, refreshed after a two-week stay in Puerto Vallarta and clean after a long shower in her temporary Los Angeles apartment. She hadn’t showered, eaten, or stopped to catch her breath since. A woman holding a clipboard came over to her. She was wearing cutoff jeans that showed her slender, athletic calves and an inside-out faded yellow T-shirt. She looked as weary and grubby as Jenny felt. Jenny forced her tired mind—usually quick to remember details—to... recall her name. Pam? Yes. Pamela Whitford. An artist of some sort, and one of the owners of the Sea Glass Inn where Jenny would be staying while she was here. Not that she’d be spending much time in her room there, away from this convention-center-turned-wildlife-hospital. “Hey, Jenny,” Pam said. Her shaky voice and red eyes were proof she’d been crying not long ago. She cleared her throat and blinked a few times before continuing with a more composed tone. “The entrance hall is almost filled with the donations we’ve been getting all night.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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