‘You’re on flight AT80?”
“Yes.”
“Me too. I’m Tom.”
The man took a seat next to Martin in the departure lounge. His accent was American. Taaam. He was elderly, early seventies perhaps. Pallid, seamed face, pale blue eyes, grey hair tugged back in a ponytail. Windbreaker jacket, beige cargo pants.
“Been to the island before?” he asked Martin.
“Never. And you?”
“Mmm. Lived there. For eight years. Married one of them. Divorced her, too.” His tone was disconsolate. One of them made it sound like they were a different species. Perhaps they were. From Martin’s reading about the island, it seemed they could be. Tom added, “First time back there in six years.”
They chatted. He was from Anchorage, Alaska. A telecommunications engineer.
