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“Make a wish and wish we are together

For always and forever endlessly.”

‘Smile When We Whisper’,

Torquil Campbell

EVIE

Then, Thursday, May 26, eighteen years ago

Evie Sutherland had never seen a squirrel, a train, or a McDonald’s. Not that she minded. Island life in Orkney with its unlocked front doors and mysterious standing stones was safe yet otherworldly, an unsupervised playground of seashell-strewn beaches, patchwork farmer’s fields, and archeological wonders. The tight-knit archipelago offered an unhurried childhood where Evie grew up content, never missing what she didn’t have.

Until last night.

I need to talk to Sun! Adolescent angst gnawed deep in Evie’s chest as white-capped waves surged across the Bay of Skaill. Her impatient gaze leapt past classmates, past the tour guide, and along Skara Brae’s elevated footpath where her bestie, mouth agape and dark hair dancing in the wind, stared off into the treeless horizon. Obviously, thirteen-year-old Sunita Kumari wasn’t smitten by the trials and tribulations of Neolithic life either.

“The stone houses of Skara Brae are older than Stonehenge, older than Egypt’s pyramids!” The lanky tour guide multitasked, serving up fascinating facts while leaning defensively into another ferocious gust off the bay. “But the people who lived here were just like us! They wore jewelry, used dishes.” He clawed at his patchy beard, his brittle fingernails bitten to the quick. “They even kept keepsakes in their dressers! Pretty cool, right?”

Seizing the straps of her backpack, Evie braced herself against the cheek-numbing gale as several classmates gave in to molar-flashing yawns. Others glowered. Plenty of sneering side-eye was shared.

Their teacher stepped in, rallying her troops. “We have amazing bragging rights! Did you know this is one of Europe’s oldest prehistoric villages?”

Know? You won’t let us forget! With a furious sweep of her home-cut bangs, Evie glanced at her Swatch, a colorful 1980s hand-me-down from her mother, and bowled into Sunita, breaking her friend’s daydream. “Suuun,” she grumbled, ignoring the guide’s nasal ramblings about the Neolithic box-beds on display below her glittery sneakers. “I neeed—”

“I know!” Sunita moaned through a mouthful of metal as their teacher indulged the guide with a banal question about Stone Age pillows. “She’s seriously out of control. Honestly, who gives a surprise quiz on the bus? I swear, if she steals our break—”

“I’ll bloody die.” Evie finished Sunita’s sentence as a chorus of teen rebelliousness flared around them.

“This place is so stupid,” snarled a chubby blonde girl, the daughter of the local butcher. Her defiant fists stretched the pockets of her Kirkwall Grammar School hoodie. “I HATE living here.”

Sunita nodded. “When I leave for uni, I’m never coming back.”

A red-headed boy, cheeks sprinkled with freckles, sucked in a mouthful of air. “Where’s the toilet? Like, not a shitty ancient one—a REAL one.” Desperate, his eyes bulged.

Luckily, he knew Evie. Over the past eight months, she’d memorized the whereabouts of (almost) every public washroom around the Mainland, a habit more born out of necessity than nerdiness. “In there,” she said, gesturing away from Skara Brae’s excavated houses. “The visitor center—”

“CLASS! Shhh!” warned the teacher over her shoulder. A hush swept the students as the boy dashed off. “And where are you off to?” she demanded.

With the teacher distracted, the class resumed their brazen chatting. The girl in the hoodie elbowed a yawning friend. “So—did you watch?”

Evie leaned further into Sunita. “Did you?”

“Ohmygawd, YES!” She squealed behind a veil of hair whipping wildly in the wind.

A dirty laugh loud enough to rattle a barn vaulted from Evie’s throat. Heads turned, both student and adult.

“CLASS!” the teacher barked. “How many times! BE QUIET!”

Evie and her friends flinched. “Sorry, Miss!” they mumbled in chastised unison before slipping into silence, their uncomfortable pause filled with the shrill cries of Arctic terns dive-bombing the churning surf.

“I don’t know what’s got into you today.” The teacher checked her watch. “You’ve got fifteen minutes before we head back. Make it count. This will be on the exam.” With a glare, she stormed off, apologizing profusely to the guide as they neared the visitor center.

Sunita steered Evie away for a private chat. “Who cares about this crap! Jake and Amanda actually did it!”

“I know!” Evie gasped, replaying the previous evening’s episode of Dalston Grove in her head. The television drama about a rough school in northeast London featured an ensemble of teenage actors and gritty storylines and had quickly become the talk of schoolyards around the country. But it was ‘Jake’, sixteen-year-old actor Nikolai Balfour, who stole hearts and adorned bedroom walls from the Isle of Wight to Shetland.