Milton’s alarm went off at 6:15 the next morning. He rose from his couch-bed, suited up, and was about to head out the door when he realized—
There were no noise coming from Uncle Evan’s room.
Other than Milton’s first day and the day of the hike, Uncle Evan had been fast asleep (and earsplittingly loud) when Milton arose every morning. Milton peeked behind the beaded curtain, wondering if his uncle had found some miracle cure for his nightly respiratory racket.
But the bed was empty. Uncle Evan was gone.
Milton checked the icebox, but there was no note. Feeling a bit disconcerted at his summer guardian’s disappearance, he headed to the Morris cottage, where Fig was slipping out her front door.
“Hey, Sea Hawk,” she said. “Ready to go to the banyan?”
“Oh … yes,” Milton said distractedly. “Ready.”
They continued together up the beach path, passing the Alvarez cottage. Gabe was alone outside. He had bandages on his knees and elbows and one on his forehead, but as he was currently doing somersaults through the little front garden, he appeared to be in good health overall.
“Hey hey, Sea Hawk!” he cried. “Hey hey, Fig! Are you looking for Dr. Greene? He went that way!” Gabe pointed toward the barely there trail that led to Dr. Paradis’s house. “Are you going there? Is something happening? I’ll come too! Let me get Rafi.”
“Ah. You don’t have to—no need!” Milton called after him.
“What’s going on, Sea Hawk?” Fig asked. “Dr. Greene’s at Dr. Paradis’s old house?”
“I suppose,” Milton replied. “He was already gone when I woke up this morning, which is most unusual. He didn’t leave a note either.”
Instead of going up, Fig’s eyebrows pulled down, her eyes compressing with worry. “We should check on him,” she said.
They took the barely there trail through the unshaded, super bright meadow of dune grass (thank heaven for explorer hats) and then through the (blessed) shade of the towering trees that surrounded the dilapidated home of the deceased Dr. Paradis. Milton would have gone to the back of the house, where Uncle Evan had told him he went when he needed to think, but Fig climbed the stairs to the sagging porch.
The paint-chipped front door, Milton now saw, was ajar.
Without hesitation, Fig pushed the door open, and Milton followed her over the threshold. The inside of Dr. Paradis’s old house was as crumbly and neglected as the outside. The floorboards were probably varnish-shiny once, but now they were cracked and dull. The wallpaper was peeling and discolored, and the whole place smelled musty and dusty and a tad rotten.
Milton and Fig tiptoed (it felt like a tiptoey kind of place) down the hall until it opened onto a small sitting room. The walls there were covered in sun-muted tapestries, and every square inch of floor space was filled with furniture—bamboo tables, a high-backed velvet settee, teak stools, a grand piano.
And sitting in front of a dust-coated rolltop desk, his shoulders hunched, his head hung low, was Uncle Evan.
Milton was reminded suddenly of the way his father had been slumped at the kitchen table one Saturday morning not long before he’d moved out. At the time, Milton had backed out of the kitchen, returned to his room, and crawled under his covers, playing Isle of Wild and completely forgoing meals until dinnertime.
Now he rushed forward. “Uncle Evan!” he cried. “What’s wrong?”
Uncle Evan jumped to his feet. For a moment, it seemed like he might bolt for the front door. Maybe he would yell So long as he went. But then he sighed deeply and ran his hand over his face. “The court contacted me yesterday,” he said. “They’ll be making their decision on Friday. So I have until then to submit any final evidence supporting my petition for the island to be designated a protected wildlife refuge.” He paused before continuing in a heavy voice: “Or I can submit papers formally withdrawing that petition.”
Milton felt his sensitive stomach do a Gabe-style somersault. He was (somewhat uncharacteristically) speechless.
“Show him the field guide, Sea Hawk,” Fig said, breaking the silence.
The field guide! Milton didn’t think this was the most opportune time to tell Fig that the guide was no longer in his possession. He slapped at his empty zippered pockets. “Oh, I—I must have left it in the cottage! How silly of me,” he said.
Fig frowned at him, then opened a pouch on her utility belt. “An Incredible Symphonic Cicada,” she said, thrusting the jar toward Uncle Evan. “We found it by the river. That green thing in there with it is a fruit from a Sweet Pickle Tree.”
“I saw the EarthWorm Pachyderm too,” Milton added. “The elephant-worm-thing that lives underground. It’s real, Uncle Evan. Rafi and Gabe saw it too. We can write about it and send our report to the courts as proof!”
He’d been sure his uncle would cry from happiness when he finally learned that the never-before-seen creatures were real. But now … well, Uncle Evan did look like he was going to cry, but Milton was 100 percent sure that happiness didn’t have anything to do with it.
It wasn’t exactly the triumphant reveal he’d hoped for.
“There’s nothing I can do,” Uncle Evan said, staring down at the pickle-juice-sucking, tiny tuxedo-wearing bug in his hands. “We haven’t been able to get a specimen in a long time, so I’m sure the Alvarezes will be thrilled, but the cicada is—it isn’t new. And the other creatures—I’ve worked nonstop for years studying the vine and the island. I’ve brought the best environmental minds here. I’ve spent these last few months scouring our notes and research, but nothing I’ve come up with has been enough.” He handed the bug jar back to Fig and shrugged both shoulders. “Dr. Paradis told me the island was waiting, but it obviously wasn’t waiting for me. I think it’s time to give up.”
If Milton had thought Uncle Evan looked smaller on the docks ten days ago, it was nothing compared with the way he looked now. It made Milton’s heart ache and his stomach clench. If only he could give his uncle some Sea Hawkian vim and vigor. “Uncle Evan,” he started, “you don’t mean—”
“Can Sea Hawk and I go camping?” Fig interrupted.
Uncle Evan lifted his head slightly. “Camping?”
“Like … sleeping outside?” Milton asked Fig.
“Yes,” she said. “Camping. Tonight. I want to do some overnight observations for the nature survey. We can stay in the tree ship.”
Uncle Evan shrugged again. “I guess,” he said. “It’s fine with me. You’ll have to ask your mom, of course.”
“I will. I’ll go ask her now,” Fig agreed, but she didn’t turn to go. Instead, she leaned forward and gently set the bug jar on the rolltop desk. “You should know,” she said, “that my mother told me how hard you’ve been working to save the island. And for what it’s worth, she isn’t sorry we came here. This island was exactly what she needed.”
Milton thought he saw Uncle Evan give Fig his smallest smile at these words, but it faded so quickly that he couldn’t be sure.