You guide Marrina back to the quiet edge of the facility. Salt still clings to the air from the sea mission. She pauses, shoulders rising with a breath.

“I’m okay,” she says automatically, because she always does. Her voice is gentle, Newfoundland-soft.

You nod, because pushing never helps. Instead, you offer your arm. She takes it with a shy squeeze, the webbing between her fingers cool against your sleeve. It’s an oddly grounding sensation.

Inside the recovery room, you help her settle onto the padded bench near the water tank. The glass is fogged from temperature control, a whole ocean waiting patiently for her when she needs it. You reach for a fresh warmed towel and hesitate, suddenly aware of how little anyone teaches you about caring for someone like Marrina.

“Gills first,” she says kindly, seeing the confusion on your face. “They dry out faster."

“Right. Gills,” you repeat, as if saying it carefully will make you better at this.

You kneel, hands unsteady, and dampen the cloth with saline. When you press it gently along the soft ridges at her neck, she exhales, long and relieved. Her eyes close.

“Sorry,” you murmur when your hand slips and the towel brushes her jaw instead. She smiles anyway.

“It’s okay,” she says. “You’re trying.”

That hits harder than any explosion earlier.