“Hang on,” he said.

“Margo Vasquez. Party of one.”

The wind took the ashes instantly, swirling them over the gun deck, past the nesting frigatebirds, out toward the coral reefs her father had described in a letter he never mailed.

Margo almost dropped the wooden box.

Cruz scanned his tablet. Frowned. Scrolled. Frowned deeper.

“You made it,” she whispered.

At 7:27, Cruz reappeared, holding a sticky note with a handwritten seat number: 14-B.