The Truth-Will-Out Vine split for the last time, and there was the banyan tree, somehow the same as when they left yesterday morning. The twisty-turny sea grape trees were the same too, and so was the field of wildflowers and palms the four walked through side by side (by side by side).
Milton’s hiking boots had barely dried one bit, and when they reached the pebbly beach road, he paused to yank them off his feet. His socks were soaked too, and they smelled bad enough that he let out a blergh! when the odor caught his nose. His hiking clothes were nearly dry, but his whole backpack was heavy and sodden.
Because it had been underwater, which meant, Milton suddenly realized—
“My HandHeld!” he cried. “Sea Hawk!”
He yanked off his backpack, fell to his knees, and tugged the zipper open. From inside, he pulled out the dry bag and then his HandHeld and—
It was still dry.
“Is that what you play video games on?” Fig asked, leaning over him.
“I have one of those,” Rafi said. “What games do you have?”
“I used to play Isle of Wild,” Milton said, rising to his feet. “But I haven’t been able to since my HandHeld ran out of battery power.”
“So why didn’t you charge it?” Rafi asked.
Milton wished he could raise his eyebrows like Fig because this question called for Maximum Arch Capacity. “Uh, because there’s no electricity on the island,” he said slowly.
“Not on this side,” Rafi replied. “But they have electricity at the research station, obviously.”
“Surely you jest!” Milton swung toward Fig. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Fig shrugged. “You never asked about the research station,” she said. “I guess I assumed you knew.”
“I did not know,” Milton said. “I hadn’t the slightest inkling.”
He ran his fingers over the HandHeld’s screen, over his own reflected face—his cheeks mud-smeared and his beautiful hat looking considerably worse for the wear. If he’d known that an outlet was only a (blergh-inducing) boat ride away, perhaps his time on the Lone Island would have been very different. Perhaps he’d be curled up on the couch-bed in Uncle Evan’s house, crashing through virtual trees and rescuing virtual animals from injury and peril right now. Perhaps he would have spent the summer the way he had spent the rest of the year—feeling like a Bird Brain, pushing rotten thoughts to the back of his mind, wishing to be somewhere else and someone else.
But there was also this—Isle of Wild had given him a break from the rottenness of the year. Sea Hawk had shown him how to be brave and bold. And his adventures there—they had pushed him onward, ever onward in his adventures here in the real world.
“You can come to the station with me sometime and charge it if you want,” said Rafi. “Dr. Greene let me set up a darkroom there so I can develop my photos. MY PHOTOS!”
“Egad!” Milton cried. Rafi was right next to him, and his voice at loud volumes really was all that a tone-deaf-loving centopus could ask for (and more).
Rafi had dropped his backpack now. “I took pictures of everything!” He pulled out a dry bag and removed his boxy camera. “Everything we saw—the Menu-You Bush, Little Smooshie Whatever, the Yes-No-Maybe-So Tree. I can develop them first thing tomorrow morning, and we can show Dr. Greene!”
Milton forgot about his HandHeld and Isle of Wild. He leaped to his feet and let out a bird-of-prey call as Fig caught him in a hug.
It was like finding the treasure for a second time. There were high fives and cheering and then a plan to develop the photos, and show Uncle Evan their proof.
And then there was Fig, running to the edge of the water, her buns undone and streaming behind her, her invisible backpack no longer weighing her down, shouting, “We’re going to save you, island!”
Milton followed her down to the tide line and let his weary feet sink into the sand. Gabe cartwheeled down the dunes and then over to them, with Rafi trailing along behind him. The four of them stood together, listening to the rumble-and-hush of the waves and gazing up at the sunset-streaked sky. Milton knew they were unlikely to see an Astari Night Avis outside of the jungle, but the gleam of the stars would do fine.
When the Incredible Symphonic Cicadas began to play, Milton thought it was the most beautiful song he had heard yet. For a few melody-sweet moments, he thought that he would like nothing more than to stand on this beach with his friends forever. His feet would sink deeper and deeper into the sand. Seagulls would nest in his hair. Hermit crabs would nibble his toes. Eventually, they would become a part of the island, like salt-coated statues for future generations to marvel at.
Here they are, everyone would say. The Lone Island Naturalists and Explorers Extraordinaire.
He knew what happened after the cicadas’ song, but still he stayed. He thought he could handle one or two mosquito bites in order to say goodbye to everyone. They had been through a lot together over the last two days, and he wanted to end their journey the right way.
Then the first mosquito bite came, and it felt like a Really-Sharp-Schnozzed Shrew was drilling into his jugular.
He couldn’t handle it.
Milton took off down the beach, screaming, “So long, friends! Until tomorrow at six a.m.!” And then he was just screaming as the insects swarmed after him.
Uncle Evan was waiting inside the door with the heavy-duty flyswatter. After he finished decimating the insects hitching a ride on his nephew, he said, “Milton—I mean, Sea Hawk—welcome home.”
“Thank you, my good man,” Milton said. He set his canvas backpack down on the floor of the cottage. “It’s good to be back. And it’s quite all right if you call me Milton from now on. That’s who I am.”