"This looks like a good enough spot."

With a sigh of relief, the other three animals toss their things onto the hot sand ceremoniously.

"Finally!" Brian pants, wiping the moist feathers of his forehead.

"Tell me again why we've been hiking through the beach for half an hour under this god forsaken sun?" Desmond grumbles.

Hafsa sticks her nose up to said sun with a self-righteous huff. "Location, boys! If you wanna sit down in any old spot filled with trash or noisy kids, be my guest. But my standards are high. This place is perfect."

"It really is," Solomon nods, laying down a striped blue beach towel. "Just enough people around us, not too far from the water, there's a beach bar right there..." He points behind them, where a bright red roof peeks over a mound of sand.

"See, he gets it." Hafsa sticks her tongue out to the wheezing herbivores, ignorant to the ram's eye roll.

With the matter settled, the student council members begin to set up camp. Each animal had brought a handful of personal items suited for their beaching experience. The most prepared by far was the president herself: as she was the one who proposed a trip to the beach, she promised to provide the food and drinks, though the others contribute with a few bags of chips and bottles of water, all stored in the hefty blue cooler she carries with ease (though Solomon ended up carrying it for most of the trek). Besides perishables, she's also equipped with the entertainment in the form of a beach ball, a paddling board and even some buckets for sandcastling. All of this and more miraculously fit in her sturdy tote bag; such is the mystery of the omnipotence of a female's seemingly infinite bag storage space. Their little beach oasis quickly becomes a respectable resting ground: a bazaar of colorful towels for each member neatly lining the ground and even a large white beach umbrella, courtesy of Desmond, that provides a life-saving cover from the blazing summer sun. At last, they are at the beach.

Brian wastes no time. As soon as he straightens out his towel (which is most of what he brought) he promptly flings his shirt off of him, revealing his generous feather-covered belly. A pigeon's feathers in direct sunlight have a dazzling iridescence to them, one of the few aesthetic qualities of the species, so the bird proudly parades his bare chest for the other members to admire.

"Whew, that shirt was getting stuffy!" He chuckles.

"Wow Brian, are you sure you're not a peacock?" Hafsa whistles, trying to contain the steadily accumulating drool inside of her mouth. As much as she enjoys seeing her friend enjoy himself, her carnivorous instincts hadn't quite gotten the memo that he wasn't for eating.

"Oh, they're even better when they're wet!" Brian chirps, prompting a loud snort from Desmond. "I'm ready for the ocean!"

Hafsa's ears flatten. "What, already? We just got here!"

"The whole point of a beach is to swim! Or else we'd all be going to deserts."

"How wise." Solomon deadpans. "Well, it's best if I get it out of the way quickly. I'll go too."

In a swift motion, he also removes his shirt, revealing his lean frame. Hafsa once again fights off her excessive salivation, though this time for different reasons.

Brian offers an enthusiastic fist for bumping, to which Solomon lightly brushes the palm of his hand against. "Alright, Sol! Let's do this! Any other takers?"

"Pass." Desmond says, already seated on his fold up beach chair. "I'll die if I go in there."

"Don't you think you're being a little dramatic?" Solomon asks with a raised brow.

"No, I mean I'll literally die." Desmond explains. "Sheep can't swim. The water makes our wool so heavy that we sink to the bottom of the ocean and drown."

"Wow, that's a good excuse. I wish I had that for running." Brian says, impressed. "What about you, Hafsa?"

Hafsa smiles. "Um, maybe later. I want to sunbathe for a bit."

And so, the two upperclassmen head out to sea, leaving only serval and sheep behind.

"So..." Hafsa kicks at the sand. "What are you gonna do?"

"Uh... Read, I guess?" He scrambles for a crumpled paperback in his backpack. "Sleep if I'm lucky."

"Cool." Without much prompting, Hafsa grabs the hem of her tank top and slips it over her head, and just as suddenly, wriggles out of her short skirt. Now uncovered, Desmond gazes at her true attire, a maroon paisley-patterned bikini, in what could only be described as 'uncomfortable delight'.

"Aren't you gonna take that shirt off?" Hafsa asks the short-circuiting sheep.

"I... shirt..." He mutters under his breath, the English language now only a distant concept. Her expectant, somewhat sheepish expression snaps him back to reality. "It really doesn't make much of a difference. What with the wool sweater permanently attached to my body."

"Fair enough." The serval gives him a final grin before lowering herself onto her beach towel, where she rummages around her mini wormhole of a bag, finally grabbing a small bottle of sunscreen. She pours a glob of white cream on the tip of her index finger and generously smears it on the ridge of her nose and tip of her large ears. "Want some?" She offers, pointing the tube of sunscreen towards the ram.

"Uh, no thanks. I don't plan on staying in the sun. Sheep... die if they stay in the sun too long. Sunstroke. Heatstroke."

"Jeez, sorry I asked. Sounds like the beach is the last place you should be in." Hafsa chortles as she rubs the balm on her ears. "Why did you even come? Something tells me you don't really care about peer pressure."

The reason Desmond came to the beach is currently lying in front of him in a two-piece, but he definitely is not going to say that. "It was a golden opportunity to witness Brian's rippling pectorals. Need I go on?"

Hafsa laughs. "No, I understand. Thanks for risking your life to be here!"

She lowers the remainder of her body to the floor, lying completely supine under the blazing sky. With one eye already closed, she takes a final look at the blueness above. "Well, though sheep may be useless on a beach, the only thing a cat can do is sleep. I'll let you read your book now."

At the moment, reading is the last thing on the ram's mind. His most pressing concern right now is how Hafsa's midsection is a really nice cream color. It forms gentle swirls on her stomach like latte art on a cappuccino, while dark bold spots line the peripherals haphazardly. The composition is nothing like the crude piebald splotches on his wool: it's tinged with an elegance and dynamic similar to that of modern art paintings, all contained within her slender torso.

Wait.

Oh God, he's totally been staring at her for like 10 minutes.

He flings his book at his face; an inexplicable and highly impractical reflex that only serves to bruise his nose. He opens the book on a random page and his eyes frantically scan the lines of words, but none of the symbols seem to make sense in his brain. What was this book even about again? With a sigh, he tosses it back on his lap in defeat. He plops his head on his hand perched upon the arm of his beach chair, and manually swivels his gaze to face the opposite direction of the sunbathing feline.

"So..." Desmond's voice cracks with awkwardness. "How's your vacation been?"

Hafsa opens an eye to this sudden question. "You're showing interest in someone? Damn, I think you got sunstroke already."

The sheep grinds his forehead against his hand. "I must have if I thought talking to you was a good idea."

Hafsa's face crumples into boisterous laughter. "You'd be so lucky! But fine, I'll humor you. My vacation has been very standard so far. Y'know just usual stuff: hanging out with friends, summer homework, lots of social media. Speaking of, if you want the full story, maybe follow me on Instanyan? I go in rigorous detail."

"I don't have that shit."

Hafsa gasps as if he has insulted her own mother. "You don't have Instanyan? Do sheep live under rocks now? Even my parents are on Insta."

Desmond scoffs. "All that social media junk is a waste of time. I don't want to know what people are doing all the time."

"Your tone is braggy but your words are sad." Hafsa sniffles in mock sympathy. "Aren't you popular with bovids or something? How can you be popular and not use social media?"

Desmond shrugs. "Ewes like mystery. And I give them nothing to work with. It drives them crazy."

"I feel gross just listening to that."

"It's called playing the game," Desmond flings her often used dismissal back at her. "But I'm not entirely off the grid. The ram fighting club has an account. I delegated social media management to Leslie, so he posts from time to time."

"Oh, I know. I follow that account."

His ears twitch at this. "Wait, really? Why?"

"I follow every club account, dummy. I'm student council president."

Desmond's heart sinks a little. "Oh yeah."

Hafsa sits up and flips herself onto her stomach, now exposing her back to the sun. Unlike her stomach, her backside is completely covered in her iconic spots, who now have enough space to be at their biggest and boldest. Her tail rests in between her legs, content to sway every now and then. More dangerously, she now has a much better view of the ram in front of her.

"I must say, you're awfully cute in those pics, Des. Maybe it's the spandex." She winks, resting her head in her arms.

Desmond begins to fear he is genuinely suffering from heatstroke.

"How's your summer going, anyways?" The serval asks. Although she closes her eyes, her ears remain alert to his answer.

"Oh, um.." He tries to recall what the past couple of weeks have been. Mostly lounging around at home, avoiding his visiting brothers or overbearing mother, playing video games, and occasionally meeting up with the rams. Oh, and also casually solving the citywide conspiracy of the rise in sheep predation while looking for his friend in the black market. Turns out it's a cult.

Well, to say he 'solved' it is being generous. Really, he has no reason to trust the words of that loony vulture. Her supposed knowledge of the Kin of Luca, as she called them, could be nothing more than embellished hearsay, typical in any marketplace. The extent of their influence in the disappearance of Isaac or the mysterious prowler remains to be proven. But, there is one thing Desmond has safely concluded: this whole ordeal is completely out of his hands.

If the Kin really is involved, then we're talking about an organized group of cannibalistic fanatics (according to the vulture, at least). Nothing a high schooler is equipped to deal with in the slightest. And if they aren't involved, then he has nothing to work off of. Both incidents that took place at Noah's Arc were altogether devoid of clues, meaning the best he could hope for is to wait for another incident and pray the culprit will get sloppy. And really, there's no point in hoping for that. So, Desmond had decided to wash his hands of this incident. It's not even worth telling his 'Sherlock'; what would Hafsa do about this Kin? Knowing about it would only stress her out more, especially since the lead is so flimsy to begin with.

He ends up keeping it vague. "Uneventful."

Hafsa frowns. "I'm surprised you haven't died of boredom."

Before Desmond can retaliate, a dripping wet pigeon arrives at the scene, followed by and equally wet caracal.

"Maaan, the water is great!" The pigeon exclaims, plopping down on his faded towel and promptly rolling around on it to air his plumage. "I wish I were a seagull so I could have waterproof feathers."

"We didn't go too deep, but the water is refreshing and clean. The waves are a little strong, though. I think if you swim far enough you can even see some seaweed forests." Solomon nods.

Hafsa shivers. Seaweed forests are another reason she hates the ocean. Besides the sand that gets everywhere, the saltiness of the water, the damn swimming, and the unpleasant feeling of damp fur, the clumps of seaweed just rolling around the sandy floor waiting to be stepped on gave her the creeps. And seaweed forests are even worse; deep underwater trenches covered in towering, undulating stalks that can tangle you up like a tentacled monster... It's out of a horror movie.

"Wow, Hafsa, what a nice swimsuit!" Brian snaps her out of her morbid daydream.

She sits up into a more appropriate position and giggles. "Really? Thanks!"

"It really suits you." Solomon adds with a smile, causing both Hafsa and Desmond to redden.

"It's going to look even better when you come swimming with me! Let's go!" With that, the pigeon jumps to his feet and offers a hand to pull the president up.

She tilts her head sheepishly. "A-already? Don't you want to rest up a bit?"

"No way, I'm good to go! Come on, you're gonna love it!"

Hafsa's face remains poised in a shining smile, but to Desmond, her discomfort is all too obvious.

"I'll go." He blurts out, surprising himself.

The other animals gape at him.

"But what about the drowning? And the heatstroke?" Brian asks with concern.

"I'll just dip my feet in. Ankle deep and nothing more."

"Really?" The birds look of concern immediately melts into one of glee, and he merrily dances around the hot sand, chanting "Desmond's going swimming! Desmond's going swimming!" in a singsong voice.

"Jeez, enthusiastic much?" The sheep grunts and he lifts himself to his feet, his two upper horns poking at the umbrella's fabric. "We won't be long."

"We can have lunch when you guys come back, okay?" Hafsa offers. As Desmond glances back at her, the relief on her face is enough to make him swallow his sigh and follow the pigeon without a complaint.

"Maybe if you're lucky, you'll avoid having to swim all day." Solomon suggests to a drowsy Hafsa, who had resumed her sunbathing.

"Brian's gonna drag me by the tail." She laughs. "I've never seen him this chipper."

"He doesn't get to leave town often, so he tends to go overboard. Nautical pun not intended."

Hafsa smiles. "It's pretty cute but it causes problems for us three." She tilts her head pensively, resting it on the crook of her elbow. "I wonder why Desmond volunteered to go all of a sudden. Maybe he's finally getting into the vacation spirit."

"Who knows." Solomon hums. A cool breeze wafts by, rattling the fabric of the umbrella.

"Hafsa." The caracal starts suddenly. "What do you think of him? The sheep?"

Her ears dart up. "Why do you ask?"

He shrugs. "It's my understanding you initially disliked each other. I was just wondering if that changed at all. It's unfortunate if student council members don't get along."

"Well..." She rolls over to her side, facing away from the caracal's towel. "We're friends now. I think. He's still a little hard to read sometimes."

She shuts her eyes, contemplating on the unexpected question. She'd certainly like for her and Desmond to be on friendly terms, but she wonders if the sheep still considers her a carnivore above all else. It's true she still restrains herself around him: some jokes or touches would be inappropriate between a carnie and a herbie. The more she thinks about it, the more annoyed it makes her. Holding back is the objectively correct thing to do, after all. There is a way to act around one's mother, one's principal, and one's herbie friend. Why are these guidelines suddenly oh-so claustrophobic? To be upset over such a simple truth is like being upset over having to drink so as to not die of thirst; it's simply part of life.

What a bother, the carnivorous body. Perhaps this annoyance also is the product of a meat-eating brain. Should she act in the way she truly wants to, hugging and joking without a care in the world, would that not facilitate a possible predation? Could her frustration just be bloodlust in disguise? The question prickles her mind, sticking to her brain like a burr. It doesn't sound quite right. Why can't she just be friends with him without having to worry about whether or not every move she makes is driven by an unprocessed gluttony? The world is unfair. That's something she hasn't thought about in a while. So this is where she stands with him: in a resurgence of childhood petulance.

"GUYS!"

A panicked scream breaks her concentration. Brian comes hurdling towards the camp, stumbling over the sand as if it were ice. Only Brian.

"D-Desmond-!" He squawks, gasping for air. "H-he got tangled in seaweed... and th-the wave suddenly pulled it back... and it took him with it!"

The two cats are on their feet in an instant.

"I'll go get the lifeguard." Solomon says. "Make sure he stays in sight."

"There's no time for that." With that, Hafsa sprints towards the water, ignoring the cries of protest from the males. With her long legs, it only takes a couple of strides to reach the shoreline. She frantically scans the water for any signs of the sheep. In the distance, she spots a bubbling unrest, speared by the dark keratin tips of horns. The prongs thrash wildly about, becoming more submerged by the second.

Hafsa rushes into the water. Her steps become more and more bogged down by the water until she is deep enough to dive into a breaststroke. By the time she reaches the clutter of bubbles, the horns have completely disappeared. The serval takes a breath and sticks her head under the waves. Luckily, the water is as clean as Solomon said, allowing her to find the unconscious clump of wool that is Desmond almost instantly. She pushes water aside in violent swipes, diving down to the sea floor he floats over (hanfully he's just on the outskirts of the actual seaweed forest). His legs are ensnared by the murky green vines of the algae, no doubt the result of a struggle. Without thinking, Hafsa grabs a leg and bites at the plant, tearing the fibrous stalks with her fangs until the leafy serpent loosens enough to release the ram from its constriction.

Now to drag him out. Digging her claws in the thick wool coat near his neck, she tries to pull him with her to the surface. However, Desmond wasn't exaggerating about how heavy wool gets when wet. Even with the tide aiding in movement, it's like trying to pull an anchor. Panic chews at Hafsa's stomach. She tightens her grip, now using both hands, and desperately kicks at the water with all her might hoping to move.

She feels him shift, slowly following the direction of her heaving. This energizes her; her powerful leg muscles now in full gear. But progress is too slow. The air in her lungs is almost gone, draining even faster due to the legwork. She stares up at the blurry rays of light that dance and goad her on. As her chest tightens, her vision fades, and her eyes close, only one thought crosses her mind.

Please..! Make it!

A sudden draft hits her. She opens her eyes and is met with the infinitely blue horizon. Instinctively, she takes a breath, and to her surprise, oxygen flows through her nostrils instead of seawater. Her mouth opens, gasping for air as she tries to get her bearings. Though her vision is still blurred, a vast stretch of white indicates that must be where land is.

Wasting no time, she submerges herself once more so that she can position the senseless sheep above her, clutching his arms to her chest, propping his head on her shoulder and arranging his legs in a pseudo-straddling position. The sudden weight of the sheep on her nearly causes her to sink right back down to the ocean floor, but she pushes against him so that at least his muzzle is above water.

Hafsa doesn't know how she got to land. Blinded by the thrashing waves and sea foam, she could only hope that her writhing and kicking and shoving would last until they made it. She only realized they had made it once she noticed the sensation of sand tickling her nose. Suddenly, she is on solid ground, crushed by a ponderous mass of soggy wool, clawing at nothing. With one last heave, she throws Desmond off of her, rolling him onto his back.

Finally she takes a good look at his face. He's out cold, the white segment of his facial fur now a light blue, hinting at the asphyxiated discoloration of his skin. He is completely bloated; less so because of the lack of oxygen and more so because of the sheer amount of water absorbed into his fur.

"Oh god..." Hafsa croaks. "Oh god, please be okay..."

She rips his soggy t-shirt down the middle, leaving his chest exposed, and presses an ear against it. Even though the heavy layers of wool muffle it, she manages to detect a faint heartbeat. A small relief. His heart continues to pulse, but he shows no signs of breathing. If he doesn't get help soon, that heartbeat is going to fade out.

She feels an increasing rumble approaching, and notices Brian running towards them.

"Is he okay?!" He yells, practically skidding to a halt.

"H-he's not breathing. Where's the lifeguard?" Hafsa gasps.

"Not here yet. Solomon's still trying to find one."

"Fuck." Hafsa mutters under her breath.

"I'll try to find someone who knows CPR!" Brian offers, already turning back.

"I know it."

The bird chokes. "You do?! How do you know CPR?!"

"I like to be prepared for emergency situations!" She snaps back.

"Well, this is an emergency situation! I'm going to call an ambulance or something, so just... do your best!" And like that, he scrambles off.

Hafsa looks down at the unconscious ram. Digging through her jumbled thoughts, she recalls the steps of the CPR seminars she once took.

Step one. Lay the animal on their back. Done.

Step two. Open the airway by lifting the chin and check for choking hazards. Done.

Step three. Check for breathing. Confirmed negative.

Step four. Chest compressions. Hafsa places one hand atop the other and clasps them together in the center of his chest. Using the heels of her hands, she pushes deep into his skin, trying to mentally keep pace with an old pop song she has been taught used the correct beats per minute needed. She pushes and pushes, her claws hugging deep into the palm of her hand until she reaches 30 compressions. Done. She checks if that was enough to revive him. His face however, remains locked in pained stupefaction.

Step five. Rescue breaths. She had hoped it wouldn't have to come to this. She shakes off such a horribly selfish thought; these have no place in this situation. Her resolution gathered, she once again tilts his head back. With one hand, she supports his chin, keeping it raised, and with the other, she pinches his nose shut (not an easy feat given how slanted a sheep's nose is).

Hafsa lowers herself. She takes a deep breath. And covers Desmond's mouth with hers.

One breath. She eyes his chest. Nothing.

Another breath. It begins to rise. Her eyes shoot open at this, and she quickly backs off to allow him room to breathe.

Desmond's chest trembles, clearly struggling for air. Suddenly, he lurches to the side, hacking out a pool's worth of water. While he coughs and gags, Hafsa slowly inches towards him while trying to avoid the briny spew. She arcs his back the hopes of facilitating the exit of water, giving a few gentle rubs against the solid wall of drenched wool.

"Let it all out..." She comforts. "An ambulance will be here soon."

"Wh-what the fuck... h-happene—" his rasping voice is cut short by another coughing fit.

"Shh, don't talk. Just focus on breathing. You're basically a sponge right now."

Once his lungs seemingly empty out, he returns to laying on his back, weakly staring at the sun above. "Fucking seaweed..." he mumbles.

"Fucking seaweed." Hafsa nods. "You're okay now."

"I think I swallowed glass or something." Desmond wheezes, running his tongue through his teeth. "I felt something sharp in my mouth a few seconds ago."

He's too delirious to notice Hafsa cover her mouth, red as a tomato.

"We'll notify his parents right away." The white-clad mink tells the group of worried, huddled up teenagers. "Unfortunately, none of you are authorized to ride with him in the ambulance. You best be getting home. If you'd like, we can call a cab for you."

"That's not necessary." Solomon replies. "Is there anything else we can do?"

"His parents will take it from here. I'm sure you'll be able to see him soon." The paramedic assures them. His coworkers finish strapping Desmond's gurney in place and signal that it's time to go. With a final nod, the mink shuts the ambulance trunk, and with a blue and red flash, rides off into the afternoon.

Solomon, Brian, and Hafsa look at each other, not a single word to be said between the three of them. They trudge back to their stuff, wordlessly pack up, and make the trek back to Solomon's car. The drive home might as well be a funeral. Though they're thankful that, according to the paramedics, Desmond would be okay, seeing a classmate nearly drown is kind of the ultimate mood destroyer.

"Do you think he'll be okay by next semester?" Brian asks quietly.

"Of course, Brian." Solomon answers. "He'll be fine by next week."

The caracal glances to the female on the passengers seat. "How are you?"

"Tired."

Solomon nods. 'Tired' must be the understatement of the century considering what she's been through today. The other two males silently decide to give her the peace she needs so that she would at least have enough strength to walk from her front door to her bed.

Meanwhile, Hafsa's mind is a hazy field of scattered thoughts. While her physical and emotional exhaustion has drained her psyche of almost any rational thoughts, some manage to cling on. Some thoughts are of worry: if Desmond will truly be okay, how much pain he is in, when she should visit him, how his parents will react. Knowing the little she does about his mother, it's safe to say this was the last time he will ever step foot in a beach.

Some thoughts are of trivial things: the sting of her sunburned ears, the dread of how her muscles will basically be out of commission for the next couple of days, lamenting the fact they never got to eat the lunch she prepared.

But the thoughts that have her most concerned... Are the ones that are just a little bit happy that today happened.

AN: Thanks for reading. Told you this chapter was gonna be shameless! If I'm gonna write a beach episode, I'm gonna go all out.

Some notes:

Solomon drove them there. He has a license, and uses one of his dad's cars. He only uses it on vacation, and rarely if that.
I've mentioned this before, but in this universe, fish and other marine life straight up don't exist. Most of the ocean is filled with giant seaweed forests, and seaweed is therefore a huge industry (food, cosmetics, fertilizers, etc.).

Take it easy and stay safe.