Bug in jar in hand, Fig ran toward the cottages, and Milton hurried after her. By the time they reached her sunshine door, the droning of mosquitoes had begun.
“Here you two are!” called Dr. Morris as they burst inside and slammed the door. She was in the kitchen area, stirring something in a big pot. “You want to stay and eat, Sea Hawk? I don’t know if you like paella but—”
“Yes!” Milton yelled. “Yes, yes, yes. Anything but spaghetti and meatballs.”
Dr. Morris laughed. “Did you know your uncle brings that for lunch every day? He doesn’t even stop working to eat it either. You should tell him he’s welcome to come by for dinner and a night off of worrying about this island sometime.”
“I’m sure he would be very pleased to be invited,” Milton said.
He and Fig sat on the comfy red couch. Because Dr. Morris was only about ten feet away, they held a whispered debate.
“Should we tell my mother now?” Fig glanced over her shoulder at Dr. Morris, who was getting plates down from a curtained shelf. “She’d be so happy.”
“Uncle Evan would be happy too,” Milton whispered back. “But now that we found the cicadas, I feel like we’re this close”—he held up his finger pinched almost to his thumb—“to getting the treasure.”
Fig nodded. “You were right about the vines,” she said. “Somehow, they can move, and we have to figure out how.” She very slowly unzipped the pouch that held the cicada jar and peered in. “Did you know that cicadas can’t actually eat things? Their mouths are like straws, so this one is just sucking the juice out of that fruit right now. See?”
Milton did not see, because he was looking anywhere but at the jar in the pouch. “Does the grossness never end?” he said with a shudder. “But it is a pretty juicy pickle, so the cicada should be able to survive, right?”
Fig nodded. “For at least a day or two, I think. We can go back to the Sweet Pickle Tree tomorrow. And I’m going to get started on the spelling clues too.”
“Dinner’s ready,” Dr. Morris said from right behind them.
“AHHH!” Milton screamed while Fig hastily rezipped the pouch.
“What are you two whispering about over here?” Dr. Morris asked.
“Oh, nothing!” Milton cried. “Nothing at all! And may I say, Dr. Morris, that your cooking smells truly heavenly. I can’t wait to eat it and talk exclusively about its deliciousness and—”
“It’s a surprise, Mama,” Fig said in a normal-volume voice. “We’ll tell you in a few days.”