On June 4 of the Most Totally, Terribly, Horribly, Heinously Rotten Year of All Time, at exactly 5:52, Milton P. Greene’s mother handed him the letter from the Lone Island.
Well, she tried to, anyway. Milton was in his room again, lying on his bed playing Isle of Wild. And Isle of Wild required two hands.
“Milton, turn that off for a minute,” said Milton’s father.
Since Milton’s father had not set foot inside the house in three months, his inexplicable presence was enough to make Milton jerk his head up in surprise. As soon as he did, however, there was a howl of pain from the HandHeld.
“I definitely will,” Milton said, returning his gaze to the screen, “as soon as Sea Hawk is out of mortal peril.”
Sea Hawk was currently being pursued by the huge-eyed, many-appendaged cephalopod he had been observing. While Sea Hawk carried a machete in his utility belt, he didn’t use it on the island’s fauna. He was a naturalist, after all. He explored and studied and researched. He did not de-appendage.
So instead, Milton was frantically button-pressing and joystick-jiggling to make Sea Hawk duck, twist, and emit his signature bird-of-prey call in an attempt to intimidate the creature. Milton knew from a vast wealth of Isle of Wild experience that if he so much as blinked, Sea Hawk would be a goner for sure.
“Mighty moles and voles!” yelled the feather-hatted naturalist as a bright red tentacle snaked around his throat. Milton increased his rate of button-pressing and joystick-jiggling.
Milton’s mother, seemingly oblivious to Sea Hawk’s plight, reached over and plucked the HandHeld from Milton’s grasp.
“Mighty moles and voles!” Milton cried, making a desperate grab for the device. “At least pause it. You’ve almost certainly killed me!”
“We have some wonderful news,” Milton’s mother replied firmly. She held out the letter again. “You’ll want to read this.”
There had been zero wonderful news this year, and Milton was 99.99 percent sure that whatever was inside the envelope was not going to change that.
But even though he was leaning as far from the letter as he could and even though he was staring unblinkingly at the little screen in his mother’s hand and only at that screen, his parents were not getting the hint.
“Take the letter,” his father urged. “It’s for you. Uncle Evan sent it all the way from the Lone Island.”
Milton gasped and pressed his hands to his heart. The Lone Island, he knew, was an itty-bitty, teeny-tiny, super-duper-remote island in the middle of the Atlantic, much like the Isle of Wild. Milton’s uncle was a naturalist who ran research studies there, much like Sea Hawk (except not nearly as brawny or dashing … also, not shipwrecked). Milton had only met Uncle Evan one time, back when he was five years old, and he had never been to the Lone Island, but once upon a time, it had been his favorite place in the whole entire world.
“In that case,” he said, “perhaps I’ll have a look.”