In the morning, Wind stopped watching the sharks. He watched the water.

And there it was — the Pineapple Waterway, still sliding past the far side of the island, a faint amber road going always one direction. Away. Toward — maybe — everything.

The problem was simple now, and terrible. To reach the amber road, he'd have to cross open water full of Makos. And a boy paddling in a straight line is the easiest bite in the sea.

Unless every shark in the ocean was busy somewhere else.