The pilot hopped right out of the plane, but Milton spent a few moments lying flat on his back, catching his breath. Then he staggered to his feet, gathered his scattered belongings, and disembarked. He was extremely relieved to be back on solid ground. He was also extremely relieved he hadn’t puked in his new hat, because the sun was very, very bright, and also because he really liked that hat.
As promised, Uncle Evan was there waiting. Standing under the shade of a coconut-laden palm tree, he wore a once-white T-shirt and a floppy (not nearly as awesome as Milton’s or Sea Hawk’s) hat. He had sun-weathered skin and streaks of gray in his black beard. He was small and bespectacled and, to be entirely honest, not nearly as impressive as Milton had pictured him for the past seven years.
“Ahoy, Uncle Evan!” Milton called. “Am I ever glad to see you. You’re shorter than I remember though.”
“You’re taller,” Uncle Evan said. He spoke quietly, and the corners of his mouth turned up into the smallest of smiles. “How were the flights?”
“Horrendous,” Milton replied. “Horrific. Really, really awful.”
“That bad, huh?”
“I have a very sensitive stomach,” Milton said. “Also, I wasn’t exactly on board with this summer-on-the-Lone-Island plan.”
“Is that right? Well, you look like you’re dressed for summer on the Lone Island,” Uncle Evan said, taking in Milton’s ensemble: many-pocketed pants that unzipped into shorts, a patch-covered vest (including a patch for the Flora & Fauna Federation), hiking boots, and a utility belt—complete with water bottle, flashlight, air horn, penknife, waterproof watch, matches, and various and sundry other wilderness-trekking necessities. Milton hadn’t been able to persuade his father to buy him the very expensive Magnifycent2000s at the outdoor store, so his old, neon-green plastic binoculars hung around his neck.
“Purchasing this gear was part of my parents’ cunning ploy to convince me to come here willingly,” Milton told him. “In spite of that, I’m very fond of it. And look—they even got me this extremely authentic field journal.” He yanked a notebook from one of his pants pockets and held it up for his uncle to admire.
“That’s a real naturalist’s journal,” Uncle Evan said with an approving nod. “I bet you’ll need it this summer too. There’s a lot to explore here.” He paused to squint up at the sky. “We better get going. You’re a little late, and the sun sets fast this close to the equator.”
Milton followed Uncle Evan down a steep and, frankly, quite treacherous palm tree–lined path. In no time, he was sweating, and there were a million bugs buzzing around his head (three of which actually flew into his mouth!). Since his sun exposure had been nearly zilch this year, he was sure that his decidedly pasty skin was turning lobster-red. It was a relief when he spotted a concrete-block building tucked into the foliage.
“Is that your house?” he asked. “Can we go inside and sit down for about twenty hours?”
“That’s the research station,” Uncle Evan said over his shoulder. “I do most of my work there, along with a small team of scientists. Everyone’s already gone for the day, but you’ll meet them around the island tomorrow.”
Milton tried to say I’m sure that will be delightful, but it came out as a gaspy groan.
“We’re almost there,” Uncle Evan assured him. “See? The docks are right up ahead.”
With the research station behind them, Milton could now make out a glimmer of deep aquamarine, a flash of frothy white, and then, a few steps later, a weather-beaten dock came into view.
“Why do we need docks?” Milton asked. “Aren’t we here?”
“The cottages are on the other side of the island,” Uncle Evan explained. “We have to take my boat.”
It seemed that Milton’s time on solid ground was already over.