It was a long, lonely day for Milton. He wandered along the riverbanks, but the Sweet Pickle Tree had vanished behind the vine again. He dug around in the dirt trying to find some more cicadas, but came up empty-handed (he didn’t really want to find those super gross bugs anyway). He had to eat cold spaghetti and meatballs for lunch. Again.
The worst part was listening to the words Fig had said replaying over and over in his mind: We don’t have to be together every second of every day.
It wasn’t the first time Milton had heard that.
From third through fifth grade, Milton and Dev had sat together at lunch every day. In the beginning of sixth grade, they had still sat together, but Dev had started doing things like shushing Milton when he spoke too loud or asking if he could talk about something other than Isle of Wild, but then not really listening when Milton did. Then one day, while they were waiting in the lunch line, Dev had suddenly blurted out, “I’m going to sit with some other friends of mine today, Milt.”
“Oh,” Milton had said. “I see. Other friends. What other friends?”
“Some kids I met over the summer,” Dev had said. “At Full STEM Ahead camp. You don’t know them.”
“I don’t,” Milton had replied. “But we’re friends. You should sit with me.”
Dev had gotten a little angry, which he almost never had before, and he’d snapped, “It’s one lunch, Milton. We don’t have to be together every second of every day.”
Which had eventually meant that they weren’t together very many seconds of almost any day.
Then, after the Bird Brain Incident, not ever.
If it had meant that then, how did Milton know it didn’t mean that now?
And, of course, Dev hadn’t been the only one to leave that year.
Yes, it was a rough day. A day of the great, invisible hand flicking him in the back of the head. A day of totally, terribly, horribly, heinously rotten thoughts. For the first time since he’d found Dr. Paradis’s guide, Milton missed Isle of Wild. He missed it suddenly and completely, deep in his sensitive stomach. He missed Sea Hawk’s booming catchphrases. He missed Dear Lady DeeDee’s meowing chitchat. He missed turning off parts of his mind and falling into the story.
He knew he was supposed to be Sea Hawk in real life now, and that had actually been going shockingly well. But he didn’t feel like Sea Hawk today. He didn’t even feel like Milton P. Greene. He felt like Bird Brain.
It was a terrible feeling.
Milton was sitting by the edge of the river, watching the Itty Bitty Fish (if that’s what they were) swirling around in the water and rereading the field-guide entries when a hand reached over his shoulder and tapped the illustration of the EarthWorm Pachyderm.
“What’s that supposed to be?” demanded a voice.
“AHHH!” Milton screamed. He flipped the guide shut and jumped to his feet.
Rafi, box camera around his neck, started and stumbled back. “Whoa, relax,” he said. “I just asked what that thing was. Can I look at it?”
“What? Hmm. I’m—I’m not sure,” Milton stammered. “I mean, perhaps not.” Then, remembering how Fig had defended him so boldly (back when they were friends), he straightened his glasses, smoothed his peacock feather, and said, with as much Sea Hawkian bravery as he could muster, “No, you may not.”
“Why?” Rafi asked, fingers fiddling with his camera buttons. “I could help.” Which surprised Milton until he added, “You two probably don’t even know what you’re doing. Right, Gabe?”
Gabe didn’t answer, but Milton could hear him belting out a wordless song somewhere nearby.
“I told you, I’m—I’m employed by the Flora & Fauna Federation,” Milton said. “And Fig and I have already made several very significant discoveries. We’ve practically found the treasure.”
Rafi scowled his grumpy-duck scowl. Then, before Milton even realized what was happening (his reaction times not being the most tiptop), Rafi snatched the field guide right out of his hands.
“I say, you—you scoundrel!” Milton cried. He took a deep breath, then made a grab for the guide. “Return it immediately!”
“Let me look for a second,” Rafi said, holding the leaf-pages out of Milton’s reach. “Really-Sharp-Schnozzed Shrew. No way.” He continued reading aloud, while Milton continued trying to retrieve the guide. “The Really-Sharp-Schnozzed Shrew and the EarthWorm Pachyderm are not overly fond of each other and have been known to have ‘nose-offs,’ where each attempts to murder the other using only its honker as a weapon. Is this a joke?”
“It is not,” Milton replied.
“This can’t be real,” Rafi said, shaking his head. “Gabe, come over here and listen to this!”
No one answered.
“Gabe!” Rafi hollered. He folded (mangled!) the field guide, tucked it into his pocket, and took a few steps in the direction of the vines. “Gabe?”
Still no one answered.
Then there was a scream.