My phone buzzed. I reached for it, expecting to see my father’s name.
GUS: G’day mate. I heard the news. Don’t you worry, I’ll still be here next time, we’ll be causing all sorts of trouble together.
I stared at the screen for a moment longer, then set the phone aside. A hollow ache opened inside of me. I had everything… except the one thing that mattered most.
***
At some point I must have fallen asleep. The next thing I knew, Dyson was shaking me awake to freshly brewed coffee and a full meal awaiting.
The wheels screeched against the Sydney runway as the topaz water sparkled through the window. Once we’d landed, we boarded the small plane waiting on the tarmac for our flight to Harrison Island.
The tiny plane bumped and bounced through the air. I said a silent prayer as we jolted along the runway before finally grinding to a stop. We couldn’t unclip our seat belts fast enough, then squeezed down the narrow aisle and stepped outside.
Scorching tropical air greeted us like a sharp slap.
A spicy tang—ripe fruit and wet rainforest—hung in the air. I drank it in, and just like that, the post-exam stress lifted. Shielding the sun with our arms, we made our way to the small terminal.
After a few minutes, our luggage rolled out on something that resembled a glorified ride-on mower. As we wandered outside it was like we’d stepped into casual Friday in the tropics... like nothing really mattered.
Or maybe everything was just far enough away to ignore.
I spotted my name scrawled out in faded ink on a ripped piece of cardboard sitting upside down in the window of a muddy white Mercedes.
The driver, middle-aged, sun-beaten, and wearing a wide grin, leaned out of the window. “G’day, boys, I’m Mitch,” he called out. “If one of ya’s Karson, then I’m the man you’re lookin’ for.”
“That’s me,” I said, lifting a hand. “We’ll just throw our bags in.”
Dyson dumped his bag into the trunk, and I followed. We jumped in, as soon as Mitch closed his window and cranked the air con, we both exhaled.
“Welcome to Harrison Island, boys, or Harro as us locals call it,” Mitch said.
“Thanks mate, happy to be here,” Dyson replied.
“No worries. Harro’s very special. You’ll love it here.” He caught my eye in the rearview mirror before turning his attention back to the road. “I was born ’n’ bred here, damn proudof it too. Wouldn’t have it any other way. Everyone comes back. It’ll work its charm on you in no time.”
“Is that a promise or a warning, Mitch?” Dyson grinned, shooting me a skeptical look.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe Mitch was right. I already felt lighter. Freer somehow. This place might get under your skin in ways you didn’t see coming.
Mitch drove on island time, and—despite our protests—insisted on taking the scenic route, pointing out ALL the sights as we crawled along.
“Can’t have you boys missing the sights in this paradise.” He gestured toward a crooked wooden bar. “Like that one there.”
“Wow.” Dyson leaned forward. “That really issomethingelse.” We stared at the wonky wooden bar, which seemed like it had survived more than its fair share of natural disasters.
“My Uncle Rick’s,” Mitch added proudly, launching into his Uncle’s long and detailed backstory. “Tell him Mitch sent ya, he’ll shout you a drink.”
Dyson pretended to be unconscious beside me.
“That’s very generous, thanks Mitch,” I said, glancing at Dyson as he slumped deeper into his seat.
“Don’t mind him,” I said, grinning in Dyson’s direction, “he’s just dreaming about how many freebies he can get out of your Uncle—”
Mitch slammed on the brakes.
I stared through the window as an enormous horned creature—half ostrich, half dinosaur—sauntered across the road. “Whoa. Is that a bird?”
“That thing looks like it weighs more than I do.” Dyson straightened up, fully alert now.
