After five minutes at sea, Milton was clutching his stomach and groaning again. His only consolation was that at least his beautiful new hat would be spared; he had the whole ocean to puke in.
Uncle Evan tried his best to distract him. “I know you were probably a bit nervous about coming here,” he said as he navigated the motorboat toward open water. “It does take some getting used to—being so remote. That’s one of the reasons the Lone Island was uninhabited and unexplored until Dr. Paradis arrived fifty years ago. Do you remember me telling you about Dr. Paradis?”
“Urgh!” Milton groaned.
Uncle Evan seemed to take that as a no. “She passed away not too long after I came to visit you,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the rush of wind and waves. “Before she came here, she’d discovered thousands of new species, explored some of the most inaccessible corners of the world, and published dozens of books and papers.”
“Argh!” Milton moaned.
“She was fascinated by this island though,” Uncle Evan continued. “For centuries, travelers and explorers and pirates and developers had tried to turn it into all sorts of things—a new country, a resort, a military station. But something about the wildlife on this island made it impossible to live here, and eventually, every one of them gave up and left. Except Dr. Paradis.”
“Blergh!” Milton cried.
Uncle Evan nodded in agreement. “Yes, she was brilliant,” he said. “Way more brilliant than me. I’ve been here nine years, and I still haven’t figured this island out. Maybe you can help me though, Milt. What do you think?”
What Milton would have said (had the contents of his churning stomach not been creeping up his esophagus) was that he wasn’t entirely sure how much help he was going to be and were they almost there because his gut situation was getting dire, but all he could manage was, “Glergh!”
Then Uncle Evan swung the little motorboat around, and the east side of the island came into view.
“Would you look at that!” Milton leaped to his feet and pressed his neon-green binoculars to his eyes, stomach woes forgotten.
“Hey—Milton—sit down!” cried Uncle Evan as the boat lurched from side to side.
Milton did not sit down. He stood, balancing with one arm outstretched in the salt-brimmed and sun-warmed southern Atlantic wind.
Ahead of them was a half-moon bay with jagged rock formations jutting out of sparkling turquoise water. A crescent of sandy beach gave way to seagrass-covered dunes with three thatch-roofed cottages spread out along them. Then, beyond the cottages, a palm tree–filled jungle rose up, dense and green and fit for any explorer. Surrounding it all was a sky ablaze with sunset light.
It was like a scene out of Isle of Wild rendered in perfect, unpixelated color.
Or like something Milton had dreamed about during the Nature Phase, before the Most Totally, Terribly, Horribly, Heinously Rotten Year of All Time, back when he had wanted nothing more than to travel to this barely charted, hardly explored island in the middle of the ocean.
And now here he was.
“Ahoy, Lone Island!” Milton cried. “Ahoy!”