Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 113051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
It’s a biologist’s fever dream.
And exactly why I’m here.
“I take it you didn’t get a very good view of the Brooks Peninsula on the flight,” David says, watching me as I look around. He gestures across the narrow inlet, the water dark emerald, glassy, and still, to the bank of clouds on the other side, obscuring what I assume is a forested slope. “Don’t worry, you’ll be up close and personal with the area soon enough. All the cures to humanity’s woes, hidden just behind that mist.”
I watch as the fog seems to creep across the water toward us.
You’re finally here, I tell myself. You made it. Relax.
The weirdness of earlier has already faded. My ADHD brain is easily distracted, even when medicated, so it’s entirely possible that Amani got off the plane before I did and I wasn’t paying attention.
“Why don’t I show you to your room and give you a tour of the lodge,” David says, holding his arm out toward the dark, looming wood building at the end of the dock.
“What about my bags?” I glance behind me at the pilots as they start opening a hatch on the plane’s pontoons and pulling out my luggage, a metallic black carry-on suitcase with a wonky wheel and a duffel bag I won at school that has The Cardinal emblazoned on the side, Stanford’s basketball team.
“The stewards will take your luggage,” he says. I hesitate, watching as they place them on the dock beside the plane. Something here is amiss, but I don’t know what it is. “Come now, Ms. Denik,” he adds with a touch of impatience.
He gestures again with his arm, and finally, I give him an apologetic smile. “Yes, sorry. Just getting my bearings.”
“That’s perfectly normal,” he says, his voice jovial again. “And getting a tour will get you centered quickly.”
Yet, as we walk down the dock, I have to look over my shoulder one last time. The two passengers are still sitting at the back of the plane, staring out the window and watching me. I wonder why they aren’t getting off the plane, but I know I’ll only annoy David if I ask another question. I have to put in more of an effort to get on his good side. He’s not the one running the Madrona Foundation, but he is in charge of the lodge where I’ll be spending the next sixteen weeks, and I don’t need to give anyone here any excuse to check in with my school and find out the truth.
We start walking side by side down the dock. Aside from the floatplane tied up at the end, there’s a handful of dinghies, Zodiacs, and fishing boats, crucial for getting around in a place as remote as this, plus a large, sleek sailboat called Mithrandir and several kayaks and paddleboards that are stacked on the dock. At the end of one slip is a small building that reads “Floating Lab.”
Cool air rises off the water, washing over my cheeks, and I zip up the rest of my trusty Patagonia jacket I scored off a sales rack.
He notices. “Glad you dressed appropriately. You’d be surprised how many people arrive here in the summer expecting hot, dry weather.”
“I’ve been living in the Bay Area for the last few years. I’m used to it,” I tell him, even though the area around Stanford can get really hot in the summer. You could be hiking the dry trails under the Stanford Dish, baking under the sun, while San Francisco is in a bank of cloud.
“I’ll try to make the tour quick so as not to overwhelm you,” David says, even though I’m so easily whelmed in general. “I take it you’ve done some research?”
“As much as I could,” I admit, not wanting to tell him I’ve obsessively spent hours reading every single thing I could about the Madrona Foundation. “Whoever the copywriter is could be a novelist. They described the scenery so well.”
And that’s pretty much all they described. The Madrona Foundation is known for being a highly secretive organization, and their website only gives the media sound bites of their groundbreaking research finds. There was barely any write-up about the staff or the day-to-day operations—even the section about visiting research students and internships was given just a few lines. But the scenery and biodiversity was written with extraordinary care and detail by someone who clearly loves the area.
David chuckles. “Oh, that’s Kincaid.” Then he frowns, his face growing strangely grave as he glances at me. “Dr. Kincaid.”
“The website also didn’t give me any information on the staff here,” I say, my way of letting him know I have no idea who Dr. Kincaid is, though I gather from his expression it’s someone David doesn’t like much.
“Well, you know how protective we are about our research,” he says. “Which is why our first stop will be you handing in your phone.”