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“Excuse me?”
He jabs his finger at the widened road behind him. The concrete and gravel tapers off, leaving only hard-packed sand. “Planes. On the runway. You can’t just run onto the airport landing strip. You have to wait. Just like you wait every time you want to go to the shop.”
I stare at the man. At his broad, sweat-soaked forehead and his bright orange vest.
“That’s a runway?”
The sandy road that runs along the ocean is a runway? But where’s the airport? More importantly, where are the planes?
He sighs.
“You have planes here?” My heart trembles out a hopeful beat. If there are planes I could hire someone to fly me out of here. Home. Or at least to ... the big island?
He frowns at me. “Not now.”
My hope deflates a bit.
“Are any coming today?”
“No.”
“Tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Then why are you making me wait here?”
He lets out a loud humph. “Because it’s the rules.”
“But if there aren’t any planes and there aren’t any cars, then?—”
I cut myself off at his indignant expression. Even the sweat on his face quivers in indignation.
“When is the next plane coming?” I ask while he scans the sky.
There aren’t any clouds, just an expanse of sun-bleached blue as desolate and barren as the ocean crashing on the sand.
Overhead one giant brown seabird soars, caught on a current, holding still on the air. Its shadow falls over us and remains while it hovers above.
The man watches the seabird for a moment, then he answers, “Sunday.”
“Tomorrow?”
“No. Next month Sunday. With the groceries and the mail.”
Next month Sunday is three weeks away. That’s unacceptable.
If I can call the police, someone will be here today. Even if I can’t reach the police, Daniel can have a jet here in hours. I just need a phone.
“Can I pass?”
The man looks at his watch—a Cassio with an unraveling black fabric band—and watches the second hand tick for exactly eleven seconds. Then he looks at me, drops the red stop sign to his side, and says, “All clear. You may proceed.”
“Thanks.”
Then I’m running past him, down the sun-hot sand that stings my feet, past the beach gazebo, past the flat concrete houses surrounded by sand and palms, past a wooden sign that reads “Clint’s Backyard Rum Bar,” past a garage with two scooters parked out front next to two lime-green kayaks, past a large building about three times the size of the houses with spicy pepper and smoky paprika smells drifting out, and then finally to the orange building that reads “Shop.”
I burst through the wooden beads at the front door. They clatter and clank, and the concrete of the floor is blessedly cool on my feet.
