The next day, Milton woke up at 5:30 a.m. He did not want to be late for his meeting with Fig. She didn’t seem like she would stand around and wait for him.
Uncle Evan was still asleep, his snores so loud they vibrated the bead curtain as Milton pulled on his explorer gear. He tucked his journal and Dr. Paradis’s field guide into one of his zip-up pockets, then checked the silver icebox for breakfast possibilities.
Only leftover spaghetti and meatballs.
He decided to pass on breakfast.
Fig wasn’t at the docks when Milton arrived there at 6:02. She wasn’t there at 6:17 or 6:33 or 6:49 either. When Milton finally saw her walking down the beach, he checked his watch. It said 6:58.
And when Fig set her foot down on the weathered planks of the dock, the watch read 7:00 exactly.
“Want a banana?” she asked, holding one out to him.
“Do I ever!” Milton cried. “I was beginning to think spaghetti and meatballs was the national dish of the Lone Island.”
Fig raised her eyebrow at him. “Spaghetti and meatballs? Why would you think that?”
Milton didn’t answer on account of the stuffed-full-of-banana state of his mouth.
“Anyway, let’s get going,” Fig said. “There’s a lot I can show you. Usually remote islands have hardly any plants or animals, but the Lone Island is full of wildlife—at least the parts not covered in Truth-Will-Out Vine are.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Milton said, pressing his hand to the field guide in his pocket.
Fig led him to the south side of the docks. When the same kind of crab Milton had seen yesterday scurried across the rocks, Fig told him its Latin name (Johngarthia lagostoma), which Milton thought was extremely impressive. So impressive that he wondered if she might have at least a little information about the wildlife in Dr. Paradis’s field guide. However, when he asked, “Do you suppose a hundred-legged cephalopod might eat one of those for lunch?” her response was: “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Next, she led him to the nests of several bird species, like the brown noddy and the phoenix petrel, but she seemed flummoxed when he asked, “Have you ever heard a birdcall that might possibly be described as, I don’t know, tone-deaf?”
She showed him tracks on the main beach where green sea-turtle hatchlings had skittered into the ocean that morning, but didn’t even bother to respond when Milton wondered aloud, “I wonder what sort of tracks an invisible feline might make.”
By the end of this very physically active morning, Milton was more worn out than he had ever been, and when Fig suggested that they take a break, he collapsed onto the ground in the middle of the beach path. Fig walked over to the shade of a rain tree (Latin name Samanea saman) and took a book out of her utility-belt pouch.
“I say, this explorer stuff is hard work,” Milton said, crawling over to her. “I’m having a splendid time, of course.” He leaned against the tree and stretched out his aching legs. “The only thing that would make it more splendid would be an outlet and a little time with Sea Hawk.”
Fig peered over her book at him. “A little time with whom?”
Not again. “With myself!” Milton shouted.
Fig pulled her head back. “Seriously, Sea Hawk, why are you yelling?” she asked. “And why do you keep talking about yourself like that—Sea Hawk this and Sea Hawk that? And why are you so obsessed with electricity?”
“I’m not yelling!” Milton yelled. “And I’m not obsessed. Everyone likes electricity. For vacuum cleaners and air conditioners and—and video games.”
Fig’s eyes narrowed now. “Video games? So, what, have you been hoping I’ll lead you to a secret electrical outlet this whole time so you can stop hanging out with me?”
“What? No! I would never devise such a dastardly plan!” Milton cried.
“You know, I never said I was looking for a friend,” Fig said, tucking her book back into her pouch and starting to rise to her feet. “I was fine being by myself.”
“No, I know! I wanted to be your friend. I still want to. Wait—don’t go!” Milton pressed his hat to his head. His thoughts slipped and scrambled, struggling to find purchase, to find a way to keep his Restart from ending so soon.
There was only one thing for it.
“Oh, Fig, I just remembered,” he said, jumping to his feet. “I found something you’re going to love. Want to see it?”
He didn’t wait for her answer. He unzipped his pocket and yanked out Dr. Paradis’s field guide. The leaf-pages crinkled and fluttered as he thrust them toward Fig, a please-still-be-my-friend smile on his face.
Hesitantly, Fig took the pages.
She read the first one.
Then she looked back up at him with her mouth hanging open, her owlish eyes even bigger and rounder, and all thoughts of electricity obsession and third-person referencing obviously gone.
“Sea Hawk,” she said, “this might be the biggest ecological discovery of the century.”