“We found a boat!” Teddy yelled. “It’s got a motor! I’ll come out for you!”
Cal nodded in an exaggerated way, gave a thumbs-up, and watched Ted turn back toward the trees, Miranda speaking excitedly to him, Teddy patting her hand. Before they made the wood line, an older, heavyset man hobbled out of the brush, clearly winded. The crossing apparently went less smoothly for him. He was wet up to the shoulders of his blue coat. Spotting Ted and Miranda, the man stopped and panted, leaned over with his hand on a tree to catch his breath. Cal watched a brief exchange among the trio, the winded man pointing downstream. Miranda put her hand on her mouth and ran into the trees. Ted followed her. Cal heard the distant thrum of a helicopter. The armory, he thought. Thank God. And then the winded man stood up and peered out at the river. It took a moment for the man to locate Cal in all that brightness, but when he did, he waved furiously and happily.
Cal laughed quietly, then heard a boy’s voice behind him.
“Who’s that?” Bread sat up on the rock, squinting one eye in the bright sunlight, the wet jacket atop his lap.
“Fish’s grandpa and mom are here,” said Cal. “They’re coming out in a boat.”
“But who’s that?” Bread asked again. The man had stopped waving now, and leaned on his tree again, wiping his brow with a handkerchief.
Tiffany answered him this time, and Cal gave her a look, which she waved off. “That,” she said, “is Constable Bobby.”
FISH HEARD SINGING BIRDS, LILTING AND MELODIOUS, BEFORE HE opened his eyes. The rock felt gritty against his head. His mouth was dry. His body, when he began to move it, seemed incredibly stiff, so he lay still another moment, peering through scratchy eyelids.
The sunshine flooded his vision with yellow light, warmth. He could make out trees and rocks and sprays of water, and then he noticed two trees growing up right in front of him, from the rock itself. The trees wore one boot each. They were a soldier’s boots, high and laced and polished. Camouflage fatigues were bloused neatly above the leather uppers. Odd trees, Fish thought, still unable to wake. And then he heard voices, men’s voices, and all of this seemed to muddle in the memory of rain and lightning and rafts and waterfalls. Fish closed his eyes, reopened them. The boots were still there. They were attached to a tall silhouette of a man surrounded by a halo of light.
Fish lifted his head. His body was terribly sore. He looked at the boots again, the light again.
“Dad?” he asked. The boots pivoted on the rock.
“Lieutenant,” said the man. “Lieutenant—Reach Two.”
Fish sat upright. His eyes began to adjust to the enormity of the sunshine, and he shaded his eyes with his hand. The man standing before him was definitely a soldier, but he wasn’t his father. Fish wasn’t dreaming and he wasn’t dead. The soldier was a man about the sheriff’s age, with a helmet pulled low over his eyes. He spoke into the radio in his hand. Farther down the island, Fish watched another soldier making his way across the dome of rock, holding a yellow drybox in his hand.
“Reach, go ahead.”
“We found him, sir. He’s on island three. He’s conscious. I’ll have Grady assess and we’ll prepare to evac.”
“Copy that.”
The soldier looked at his wristwatch and secured the radio to his vest. Fish noticed that the man was wearing webbing and harnesses that looked like some sort of rock-climbing gear. He had a coil of rope over his shoulder, a black sidearm fastened in a hip holster. Fish looked around. On the ground between him and the soldier, the revolver still lay on the rock. He remembered where he was now, and how he got here, and the great weight and enormity of the previous evening rushed upon his consciousness like a river. He remembered firing one shot, or maybe it was two. The details swam, but he saw again a wild and pleading eye, an upturned boot, a man’s body slithering into water. But something critical seemed missing. The pieces fell into place slowly, murkily, but lacked a cornerstone. Fish’s stomach churned. He felt weak, like he’d throw up if he tried to stand.
The soldier with the radio squatted low on the toes of his boots. He had a friendly face. He didn’t say anything right away, but just smiled at the boy, and Fish felt strangely comforted by the man. He knew, down to his empty stomach, that this man meant help. The other soldier, the one carrying the yellow case, placed it on the ground next to Fish, knelt before it, unlatched its top. They looked at the boy.
The soldier with the radio spoke first. “I’m Sergeant Blake,” he said. “This is Specialist Grady. He’s going to ask you a few questions and then we’ll all get off this island. Sound good?”
Fish nodded.
The medic knelt closer and placed his left hand on Fish’s back. With his right, he gently squeezed Fish’s wrist between his thumb and fingers. The man looked at his watch. “When’s the last time you ate or drank anything, buddy?” he asked.
Fish stared at him. “Who are you?” he said.
The two men glanced at each other.
The medic looked at Fish, then back at his watch. “Can you tell me your name?” he asked.
“Fish.”
“Good. Can you tell me your birthday?”
“September tenth.”
Grady let go of Fish’s wrist and felt along the boy’s neck and shoulders, asked him if he had any pain. He shone a light in his eyes, made him wiggle his toes and fingers. Fish did what the man asked him to do, told him where it hurt. Grady asked him again when he last ate or drank, while carefully placing a small gauze pad against
