The sunset was as rapid as Uncle Evan had predicted, and it was totally dark by the time they motored up to the island’s dock. As Milton clambered out of the boat, the only sounds were the chirping of bugs and the hushing of waves and the whoosh of the wind.
Inside Uncle Evan’s cottage, there were two rooms separated by a curtain of wooden beads. In the dim glow of the oil lamp (the only source of light), Milton saw that the main room had a couch, lots of mostly empty, homemade-looking shelves, and a splintery driftwood table. There was a door leading to the bathroom, which Uncle Evan explained had a composting toilet and a rain-barrel shower.
“Are you hungry?” he asked after the tour, which had taken approximately thirty seconds.
Milton plopped down on one of the stools by the driftwood table. “Famished,” he said. “And I’ve never been so tired, not ever in my entire life.”
“I bet,” Uncle Evan said. He opened a window, then popped the top on a family-size can of spaghetti and meatballs and dumped it into a dented-up pot on a camp stove. “I wish I could spend the day with you tomorrow, but I actually have to take the boat back to the research station. I’m in the middle of a project that … well, it can’t be put on hold. You could come with me—”
“No, thank you,” Milton replied. “Solid ground for me.”
Uncle Evan laughed a very out-of-practice laugh. It sounded more like choking and ended in him clearing his throat.
“I’m sure you’ll find plenty to do.” He took two bowls down from the shelf above the hot plate. “You can swim in the bay, hike into the jungle—well, at least until the Truth-Will-Out Vine gets too thick.”
“What’s Truth-Will-Out Vine?” Milton asked.
“Probably the main reason so many travelers and explorers and pirates and investors didn’t stick around here,” Uncle Evan replied. “You’ll see it tomorrow—you can’t miss it. The vine covers the entire interior of the island, and we think it’s probably destroyed the plant and animal life beneath it. It’s incredibly fast-growing and stronger than any plant I’ve ever encountered.” He paused for a moment, his wooden spoon scraping against the bottom of the battered pot as he stirred his culinary masterpiece. “Listen, I don’t know if you even remember me saying this, but I guess I should tell you that I haven’t discovered any never-before-seen species like I thought I would.”
Milton had been slumped with exhaustion, but now he straightened up. “What about the ones Dr. Paradis told you about? The underground pachyderm and the star-feathered bird and the tree with the poison arrows—have you found them?”
“No,” Uncle Evan replied, head hung low. “I haven’t. I don’t—I haven’t really found much of anything except the Truth-Will-Out Vine.”
“Oh. I see,” Milton said. He picked at the wood slivers in the table, exhaustion and now disappointment weighing him down again. “I guess it doesn’t matter. I’m not in my Nature Phase anymore. I don’t know if I’ll even do much nature expeditioning while I’m here—other than the virtual kind, that is.”
“You say that,” Uncle Evan said, “but I saw how excited you were when we came up to the island. And you’ve got your explorer gear.” He plopped a scoop of spaghetti into each bowl. “You remind me of myself when I showed up here nine years ago actually. Who knows, maybe you’ll be the one who finds those creatures.”
“Perhaps you speak the truth,” Milton replied, head now on the table, “but I highly doubt it.”
After dinner, Milton used the kind-of-weird bathroom, then watched as Uncle Evan set up the pull-out couch.
“You know, Milt,” his uncle said, tucking the sheet into place, “your dad told me you’ve been having a rough year. I’m actually—well, I’m having a rough year myself. A rough few years, to be honest.” He smoothed the sheet and gave Milton the smallest of smiles. “But I’m glad you’re here.”
The words seemed to come through a fog that Milton could no longer shake. When Uncle Evan tossed him a pillow, Milton’s arms didn’t even leave his sides. The pillow smacked him in the face and landed on the mattress, and Milton followed it.
“Thank you, my good man,” he murmured, curling up on the couch-bed.
His eyes were closed, but he heard his uncle turning down the wick of the oil lamp near the couch and tiptoeing from the room. The beaded curtain clink-clinked as Uncle Evan passed through, and soon there was the sound of breathing getting slower and deeper, slower and deeper until—snores such as Milton had never heard before! Like a hyena laugh mixed with a walrus grunt mixed with a kangaroo cough.
Milton was suddenly wide awake. And as he lay in this strange room listening to his uncle’s earsplitting inhalations, he discovered, much to his dismay, that his rotten thoughts had followed him across the ocean.
So he took out his HandHeld, and he turned on Isle of Wild.
“The adventure is now!” Sea Hawk roared, crashing through the underbrush.
Milton was too wiped out to agree out loud, but he button-pressed and joystick-jiggled until his exhaustion overwhelmed him and forced his bleary eyes closed.