Hours stole days, and soon came the day where he was driven over to where Kolivan currently worked. The drive to the station was quiet and [i][b]so very[/b][/i] long, only because the road twisted and winded uphill in the slowest fashion. Everything took time in this place, Kolivan's old truck groaned through most of the journey, eucalyptus trees flashing by the window. Kolivan's station was for training more than firefighting, but near as Keith can tell it just meant they would get to sit around and drink beer and tell bad stories, and fortunately he was old enough and willing enough for one of those things.

The station was not quite run-down, but it wasn't new, either. It looked like someone was trying to go for stylish wood-siding and rustic appeal but hit more in ballpark of a barn. It was nestled between the trees and Keith fortunately remembered to hide his mother's necklace under his shirt before he went in, to spare himself the worst of it. Kolivan caught him doing it out of the corner of his eye and frowned.
Everyone knew him—or at least acted like they did. It must have been some sort of borrowed affection, passed down from his Dad, but all was well. Keith didn't mind it. The inside of the station was friendlier than the shack he called home and newer too. They were several drinks into the night by the time they arrive, but they saved Keith a spot at the long table, right in the middle of the row.

Antok goes to hand him a beer as he sits down and then pulls it back as he reaches for it. "Wait, are you old enough to drink?"
With a roll of his eyes, Keith grabs it out of his hand. Antok laughed and Keith let the conversion sink into the back of his mind, drinking absently, only taking in half the conversation. It was actually good to be around people after his show of desperation that one night. He got used to it when he was younger and took it for granted.
But as always, there was a nagging uneasiness there. He didn’t know how to say the right thing or order his thoughts so they’ll make sense to other people. A hundred little mistakes piled up in his mind at night before bed and in every absent moment, a checklist of all the ways he’d messed up before and all the ways he might again. He'd even messed up the one chance to study something new, act like his mother did and latch onto it, stop at nothing to gain knowledge. But then again, that was what made her disappear.

Hours passed, and Keith got to listen to the same argument he'd heard three times before—the only thing worse than a fishing story is who lifted more in training and all that bullshit—while he put away another beer and three more pieces of cold pizza. By the end of the night, he ended up asleep on the old couch by the wall. It was almost midnight before Kolivan rousted him awake.
“You can sleep here, if you want,” he offered. Keith almost agreed due to exhaustion, but he realized there was a hint of a string tying him to the shack, looped around his second rib; he couldn't stay away. He almost nodded and went back to sleep, but it was only because he was feeling so warm and the alcohol was still in his blood. The sentiment was too personal and Kolivan won’t understand, but he wanted to talk to someone about it, tell them what he saw for a second that one night. They crest the ridge and Keith could see the moon over the bay through one window and the lights of the distant city hazing the sky through the other. “Do-” Keith swallowed, tried to think of a way to say what he wanted without having to say too much. “Have you ever seen something you couldn't explain? In the—” he gestures to the view through the windshield before the truck bend around another turn and the moon and water disappeared and then had to put his hand over his eyes, dizzy from the change.

Kolivan was quiet for so long, Keith thought he wasn't going to answer, and then he said less an answer and more a mutter, “Your Dad asked me that once.” Keith fell asleep waiting for him to continue. And soon enough, it didn't seem like Kolivan wanted to.

The shack felt unaccountably cold compared to the warmth of the station. There was a moment, caught in the silence of the room where he wanted to go to the dock and knew he shouldn't. It was late and he was being stupid, but something in him was thrumming and his inhibitions were shot through the roof. He walked down to the beach like he was walking through a dream. The sand was still warm under his feet--then again he never remembered the last time they felt cold--and the moon was bright, half-full, the sea almost still below it, caught between the tides. He almost collapsed because of that damn alcohol, before his eyes turned wide upon seeing something waiting for him on the wood.

And as he got closer, and closer, he recognized the shell. That tough, colorful exterior, even if it looked broken. Keith sat, maybe almost slipped too in his rush, on the wood, surprisingly so near to the water his legs were dangling, feet soaked in it. He turned it forward and backward, raising it up against the moonlight. Elegantly silver, though he could only imagine how it'd look by his window, a spectrum of color spreading itself on the shack walls. For a moment, though, he hesitated even holding it; he had no way of telling which was a gift and which was a valuable possession when it came to this creature he saw, but something screamed at him that this was the creature trying to form a friendship, not trying to lure him into yet another trap. 
He smiled, unknowingly holding the shell--something that still managed to be beautiful despite its far than perfect state--close to his heart. He'd read up on abalones, and they possessed healing energies of protection and emotional balance. It simply resembled water, and as various cultures believed, it is the water that will tame the flames of one’s emotional strife. It almost made Keith wonder. Why this certain shell was picked, and if this man could sense the sickness latching onto him. Either way, he knew a gift deserved another, and his own curiosity ate at him. He'd felt the disappointment rising in him, though, when he realized he had nothing to offer. Or did he?

Slowly, his fingers trailed over the many shells decorating his neck, and he tried forcing himself into sacrificing one. Just one. And he eventually picked the juvenile, soft brown with a hint of pink conch shell. Hands moving to unwrap the necklace from around his neck, he slowly pulled the shell out through the sturdy thread and then set it softly down on the wood, the abalone held close to his heart still. It was flawlessly polished and smooth, in an excellent state despite the years, and would shine a rosy light in the sun. He knew there was no shortage of this kind of shell where the creature must have hailed, but at least there was meaning behind it, things he wished for the man. Good luck and good fortune. Infinity. A moment of peace, a painless life. It was so very sentimental, and he knew it was the alcohol. It must have been.