Nate lands on the dock with barely a sound, setting me down gently before stepping back and becoming fully visible. I pull off the balaclava, shake out my hair, and face the man I haven’t spoken to in almost a year.
“Erasmia,” my father says gently, adjusting his wire-framed glasses.
My father looks older than I remember, in a way that I find profoundly sad, a reminder that time is less on our side now than it’s ever been. His hair has gone fully grey now, cropped short, and there are deeper lines around his eyes that weren’t there last Christmas. He’s still tall, still lean, still has that particular way of holding himself—shoulders back, chin up, like he’s perpetually bracing for impact.
I’m the impact. Always have been.
“Dad,” I say.
The word feels foreign in my mouth. I stopped calling him that years ago, switched to “James” when I was angry, which was most of the time, then switched to nothing at all when I stopped calling altogether.
We stand there for a moment, the silence heavy between us. I can feel Nate at my shoulder, watchful and tense, probably cataloging every micro-expression on both our faces.
“You look…” My father stops, starts again. His eyes travel over my face, lingering on the fading bruises, the still-healing eye. “You’ve been hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Your eye, your?—”
“Is healing,” I snap, already reverting back to my old role in our dynamic. That lasted, like, thirty seconds. “I’m fine. You know how the job is.”
You know better than anyone.
Another silence. He wants to hug me, I can tell. His weight shifts forward slightly, his hands twitch in his pockets. But he doesn’t move, because he knows I won’t welcome it, and we’ve been doing this dance for so long that the steps are automatic now.
“You must be Vanguard,” he says finally, turning to Nate. “I’ve heard a great deal about you. Seen you on the news, of course, but Mia’s reports were always more, shall we say, illuminating.”
“You’ve been reading her mission reports?” Nate asks, an edge to his voice. It’s as much a surprise to me as it is to him.
“I have contacts at SOE. Old friends who keep me informed about my daughter’s whereabouts.” He’s talking about Mank, I know he is. He pulls his hands from his pockets, extends one toward Nate. “Dr. James Reeves. You can call me James. Welcome to Moresby Island.”
Nate hesitates, then shakes his hand. “Wish I could say I’ve heard a lot about you too, James. But Mia’s been pretty tight-lipped.”
My father’s mouth twitches. Is that a look of pride in his eyes? “That sounds like her.” He gestures toward the path through the trees. “We should get inside. It’s not safe to be out in the open, even here.”
“Not safe from what?” Nate asks.
“Border patrol boats, mainly,” he says. “There’s a chance someone saw you land here. Small chance, but a chance. I don’t want to be standing here if they come by. You’d have a lot to answer for.”
You have no idea.
We walk up the dock, past the fields that long ago used to have cattle, then through the trees, my nose filling with salal bushes and moss and fir.
Under the lone deck light, flittering with moths, the cabin looks the same as before on the outside, though it looks in need of a new coat of paint. Inside it’s like nothing has changed at all, still small, wood-paneled, smelling of black tea and old books and chemicals, the particular scent of a scientist who brings his work home with him. The same faded rug in the living room, the same mismatched furniture we shipped from London, the same photograph on the mantel.
Me and Oliver. Ages six and eleven. Grinning at the camera with ice cream smeared on our faces, the London Zoo blurry in the background.
I look away from it quickly.
“Sit,” my father says, gesturing at the couch. “I’ll make tea. Or coffee, if you prefer.”
“We don’t need tea,” I say, wanting to cut the pleasantries and get right down to it. “We need help.”
“You can have both.” He disappears into the kitchen. I hear the click of the kettle, the rattle of mugs, and him humming to himself the same song he always does, “Eight Days a Week” by the Beatles. It used to drive me crazy when I was seventeen and desperate to escape this island.
Nate and I exchange a look.
“He’s very…” Nate searches for the word.
