When you mess up, own up to it. It's a part of life, a part of being human.

I certainly messed up, or at a minimum, underestimated the amount of change society can undergo in the last several years. When the poor cell service on the yacht finally decided to kick in and load the search results for "turning a merman into a human," the very first website to pop up was for a business called "Fin-ding Your Sea Legs."

Only ten minutes away, according to Google maps and location finder, there's a woman who claims she can turn a mer-person into a human in just fourteen and a half hours, twelve if you pay for express. Apparently, most mer-people have two legs underneath their scales, they're just fused together.

A special gene is responsible for transforming Merfolk between their water and land forms, but it typically lies dormant in a merperson's DNA. However, a woman right here in Saltport, Madame Sourbelle, claims to have found a way to unlock it, enabling merfolk to transfer between forms. I don't fully understand the procedure explained on her website, but I'm pretty sure she used more fancy jargon than she needed to. The point is that so far, my deal with Two is a go.

Just to check my chances, I also research the odds of a mer-person being born without legs. Legless merfolk makeup only seven percent of the population, and I desperately hope Two isn't among them.

"You're in luck," I tell Two. "It appears that there is a woman nearby who can turn you into a human."

"Excellent," Two chuckles. "Left-scar, direct the boat toward the shop."

Left-scar leans over my shoulder. Heat tinges my cheeks as I toggle between tabs to show him the address. I suddenly feel embarrassed for the outlandish searches I've looked up. Imagine what the government would think if they saw my search history. I'd probably end up on some merfolk-fanatic watchlist.

The door slams behind Left-scar, leaving me with about fifteen minutes to figure out how we're going to get Two from the tank to the shop.

"You wouldn't happen to have a portable fish bowl lying around here?" I ask.

Two frowns, crossing his arms. "What do you mean 'fish bowl?' Do I look like a fish to you?"

Yes.

"I happen to be a mammal," Two says with the dignity of a two-year-old. I suppose his name is fitting in that way.

"Do you happen to have a portable mammal bowl? Maybe one on wheels, or that can drive itself on land?"

"And now you're calling me heavy," Two pouts. "This hulking frame happens to be all muscle, you know."

While working with clients, I typically try to avoid conflict at all costs, especially in the first meeting. So far, I've failed miserably. These waters must be tread carefully.

"Yes... you're just too fit for us to, uh, handle?" Two frowns, and I quickly move on. "I'm just trying to figure out the most efficient way to get you on land. To save time, of course, so you can meet Taylor."

"I see your point." Two rubs his chin thoughtfully. I exhale a silent breath of relief. Two stares at Right-scar for a long time. "Can you get the miniature aquarium?" His henchman nods and leaves.

I stand in awkward silence, rocking on my heels. Only swishing water fills the air. Two seems content to swim about his glass pool, beating his tail against the water on occasion. A few droplets even land on me.

Finally the door reopens, and Right-scar pushes a human-sized rectangle into the room. Water sloshes over the sides, landing on my bare toes. I jump back to hopefully protect my shoes from damage.

"So, how's he going to get inside?" I ask, brushing my hair back and trying to regain my composure.

"Cannonball!"

Two leaps out of his bowl and into the smaller one. Water sprays into the air, soaking my dress.

"Ugh!" I exclaim.

"I did warn you," Two shrugs. He settles his arms over the glass sides. It's about the size of a bathtub, not much room to move around, but enough to be comfortable.

I certainly am not comfortable. Hair and fabric cling to my skin for dear life. And I have no change of clothes. I guess I'll be walking into Madame Sourbelle's shop looking like a drowned cat.

Cat. Jennifurr.

"Oh my gosh," I breathe. I totally forgot about her. How could I forget about her? She's probably there, all alone and wondering why no one has come to feed her, unless someone broke into my car and stole her...

My car! My stuff! I clutch my head in my hands. This just keeps getting worse and worse.

"Anything the matter?" Two asks.

"My car... I left it on the side of the road."

"Oh don't worry about that," Two scoffs. "We'll get it once I'm human."

***

There's nothing quite as embarrassing as walking down a street, carrying a merman in a glass tank. My only solace is that it is after ten at night, and few are out and about. Right-scar took the front, Left-scar the back, and I'm stuck supporting the middle. We grunt all the way down the darkened boardwalk, all the way down the lamppost-lit street, until we reach a run down wooden shack. Outside, a sign hanging on half its hinges reads 'Fin-ding Your Sea Legs.'

Without speaking, all three of us place the glass tank on the ground, panting. My nose wrinkles at a foul stench, some mixture of fish, garbage, and vanilla air freshener. I can barely breathe, both from the exertion and the smell.

"Make haste!" Two cries. "My love awaits!"

I glance at the others. The last thing I want to do is pick up the tank again. My arms feel like they've been shredded. But before we decide anything, the door creaks open, and a face pops into the shadows.

"Hello?" The door flings open. "Ah, a customer! Come in, come in!"

"A little help?" I ask.

"Of course, of course." Madame Sourbelle exits the shack. She's taller and stockier than any of us and picks up the prince all by herself, carrying him inside. My eyes pop open. That's one of the most impressive things I've ever seen in my entire life.

The shack's inside reminds me of a rat dressed in Versace. Velvet divans line either wall, and a marble desk curves on the far corner, topped with a large computer. Floorboards creak with every stride Madame Sourbelle takes, culminating in a loud screech as she places the glass merman bowl down. Splintering wood catches on my heels, and I stumble multiple times.

Madame Sourbelle wears a silky, cheetah-print dress that reaches her ankles, giving the illusion that she floats behind her desk. She begins clacking at her keyboard with long nails that curl inward like a snail's shell. In the dim lighting, courtesy of a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling, pearls glimmer amidst the chipped, green paint.

"This is so exciting!" she buzzes. "I can't believe the prince has finally come!"

I shouldn't be surprised that she recognizes the mer-monarchy. She's probably researched them along with her weird science-y procedure. It's good to know one's audience when starting a business — a tip I frequently give my entrepreneurial clients and put into practice myself. I guess the real question is whether I should be embarrassed that I didn't recognize Two when I first met him. Is this common knowledge? Are my news sources not up to par?

"For you, Prince Tewen, I'll make a special deal," Madame Sourbelle says. "I'll give you the express-express discount. That means that you'll be all ready by morning!"

"Call me Two," Two replies.

"Of course. Now who will be paying?" I raise my hand, then reach for my purse dangling from my arm. Her prices weren't listed on her website, so I just crammed a couple thousand dollars into my purse on the way out. "Since we're doing the procedure in only eight hours, we'll need you to pay double."

"Okay." I separate out five one-hundred dollar bills from the rest.

"Let's see." Madame Sourbelle places a pair of tiny glasses over her eyes. "After tax, that will come out to be 19,259 dollars, ninety-eight cents. Will that be cash or card?"

My fingers freeze in my purse. "What?"

"19,259 dollars, ninety-eight cents."

I think I'm too tired to properly process information. I'm not even sure if I've had that much money in my bank account before.

"H-how do you figure that?"

"Standard pricing is 8,999 dollars and ninety-nine cents. Double that is 17,999 dollars and ninety-eight cents. Once you add on the seven percent sales tax, it becomes 19,259 dollars, ninety-eight cents."

It seems that my seventy-million dollars won't last very long.

"Will you accept five thousand for now? I promise to bring the rest in the morning."

Madame Sourbelle scowls, the first time she's lived up to her name. "I only accept the money upfront. There are too many scammers running about this town."

"I didn't realize the price would be so expensive," I insist.

Madame Sourbelle crosses her arms. "No deal. I refuse to be played by a millennial."

"But you can be assured that I'll pay for it," I say. "If I don't, you can hold Two, I mean Prince Tewen, hostage."

Left and Right-scar both stand straighter, their hands flying to the tridents hanging from their belts. Madame Sourbelle's head tilts to the side, like she's actually considering me.

"Just call me Two," Two says. He wriggles under the water, shutting his eyes.

"No deal," Madame Sourbelle says. "What am I going to do with a fish-prince?"

"Mammal!" Two shouts.

"Besides, that's time and labor I'll never get back. Either you pay the 19,259 dollars, ninety-eight cents or be on your way."

"If I might interrupt," Right-scar says. "I can just run to the boat and get the rest of the cash."

The room goes still. I blink at him, wondering why the heck I hadn't thought of that.

"Of course," I say. "Go right ahead."

Right-scar slips from the shack. My nerves go on a rollercoaster in the ensuing ten minutes. Madame Sourbelle glances up from her computer every few seconds to shoot daggers at me. I start to worry that Right-scar will just take the cash and run for his life, never to be heard of again. Or what if someone managed to steal it from the boat? What if the boat tipped over and now there's green bills floating out with the tide?

"Here it is." Right-scar's voice makes me jump as he reenters the shop. "All 19,259 dollars, ninety-eight cents accounted for." He places a wad of bills on the counter. "Actually, I just rounded up a dollar on the cents part."

Madame Sourbelle beams. "Ah! A donation. How thoughtful of you." Her face glooms, and she looks at me. "Unlike you."

"I just didn't think of it," I protest.

"What's a good phone number to reach you at?" Right-scar provides a number, and Madame Sourbelle promises to call when Two is ready for pick-up.

"Now shoo, shoo." Madame Sourbelle waves her arms about. "Do not interrupt my work. I can't think with so many bodies sharing my oxygen."

I practically race out the door and down the street until my nose is no longer assaulted with that strange cocktail of aromas. I drink the salt into my nostrils, relishing the cool breeze that brushes my hair back. A yawn breaks my lips, and exhaustion suddenly weighs on my limbs.

Car. I have to get my stuff back. I inhale a deep breath, summoning strength even though I'm running on empty. Aside from it being past my bedtime — I try to stay consistent and be sleep-ready by ten — I haven't eaten in ages. But my stuff matters slightly more at the moment.

I turn to Right-scar, who walks on my left probably to make my head spin. "Can we get my car? It's parked right by the boardwalk."

"No can do. Boss said that we were to go straight back to the yacht."

"But—"

"He said no arguments. We'll get it in the morning."

I sigh, my skull dropping backward. If it weren't nearly eleven at night, I'd put up more of a fight, do whatever it takes to win. But I'm too tired.

Wait... wait...

"I'll pay you." Right-scar gives me the side-eye. "No, I'm serious! I'll pay you a million dollars. Please, I have to make sure my stuff is okay. And my cat! My cat might be hurt!"

Left and Right-scar exchange glances. Their eyes flick to the street, then back to me, then up to the sky, then back to me. Finally, Left-scar says,

"Make it six million. Each."

I blanch. "Six million dollars?"

"Twelve million if we're doing math correctly," Right-scar says.

I sigh, my shoulders caving inward. "Fine. Six million each."

"Pay up now." Left-scar rubs his fingers together.

"I can't count twelve million dollars," I say. "It's all in hundred dollar bills. We'll be here all night."

"Fine. We'll settle for a million each now and a check for the rest."

"That's like... a thousand bills. I can't count that high right now."

Left-scar smirks. "Actually, it's ten-thousand."

I clutch my head in my hands. Pain pounds in my skull, but I force myself to do some quick math calculations. Thank goodness for Ms. Smith in seventh grade.

"I'll count a maximum of one-hundred bills out. That's ten thousand dollars. The rest will be an I owe you." The Scar-twins' blue eyes stray to each other. "Come on, I'm already giving you each six million bucks. Give me a break here."

"Ten-thousand each," Right-scar finally says.

I sigh, rolling my eyes. "Fine."

I count out ten-thousand, all in hundreds, right there and then. Actually, about a minute in, I enlisted the Scar-twins' help. If they sneak a few extra thousands, I really don't care. Never have I ever done something quite so tedious. By the time we're done, my brain is spent, and smiles decorate both of the Scar-twins' lips. I don't know how I'll manage counting out the rest of the cash.

"Lead the way," Right-scar says.

I turn around, surveying the street cast in yellowish light. The two-lane asphalt running between the sea docks and a few rundown businesses is unfamiliar. No hotel or resort-looking building rises in the distance, either.

When in doubt, trust technology. I run another search for the Saltport ATM. Surprisingly, it shows up being just ten minutes away... which ends up being half an hour of walking by foot. My feet ache, and the spindles of my heels begin to drag on the ground. A scraping sound soon follows us, growing more labored by the second. The Scar-twins decline to comment, but their smiles disappear by the ten minute mark.

Finally, my map notifies me that we've reached the boardwalk. I stagger to a stop, grabbing hold of the wooden sides of the walkway to stabilize myself. Fatigue weighs on me like an anchor, and my headache crowds out most thoughts.

"This the place?" a scar-twin asks.

I nod. "My car should be over there." I turn to the side. My eyelashes flutter over my vision until blurry light crystallizes into an empty road. I stand straighter, a little more awake. Where is my car? There isn't a vehicle in sight on this road.

"Perhaps this is the wrong boardwalk," Left-scar says.

"No, it's the right one. See, look, the ATM is over there."

The scar-twins face the boardwalk. They keep staring with knit-eyebrows for a minute, so unmoving that I turn around to see what's caught their attention. I blink for several seconds to make the ATM come into focus.

There is no ATM.

Wooden planks stretch to the water's edge, complete with benches and wildlife signs. But there's no silver box, no Saltport ATM. I clutch my head, glancing at my phone again. The map says it should be here. My car should be parked on the street. It doesn't make any sense.

"I think this is the wrong boardwalk," Left-scar says.

"No, my phone says it's right here." I hold up the map as proof, only to realize that my screen is blank and my phone timed out.

"We'll check again in the morning." Right-scar suppresses a yawn.

"But this is the place. I'm sure of it."

"There must be multiple ATMs," Left-scar says.

There is no ATM!" I exclaim, waving my hand in the empty boardwalk's direction.

"That's exactly my point." Left-scar reaches into his pocket to retrieve his phone. "I think we've had enough for one night. Let's call a cab and get some rest on the yacht."