The flash of a photograph, the lens nestled upon my nasal ridge, click-click-click, reeling Polaroid. I'm walking on the sea-floor or what I think is the sea-floor, above me is the light from the sun breaking through the surface, close enough to see undulating seaweed, and masses of driftwood. I find my bearings and with the next step .. falling into a darkness so expansive that it blotches out the light behind me. My limbs dance slow as I fall - a feather weaving through the air.

There. Lights in the deep, a fissure lit by fluorescence, a gulch in the black – no – no.

It's a current. It's sucking me in!

It's breathing? Inhaling?

It's a mouth.

I see it's eyes.

It's going to eat me.

Two months later

“Mr. Lamper. Are you there, Mr Lamper? Look into my eyes, Mr. Lamper.”

It wasn't Dr. Micaela. And the air isn't sterile and stagnant, it's refreshing. I'm not looking up at a cobweb of light-bulbs. It's cold and salty, water sprinkles against my face, the wind is loud and ripping against the hull... the hull. And there's Pascal standing on the … bow.

I'm on a boat? I'm on a boat.

“Those shellfish really put you down.” Says the operator, drinking a beer at the same time he's maneuvering around dangerous waves. “But no fear, it happens every now and then.”

“Dean! You're finally awake. Thought we'd have to turn around for a moment. How anti-climactic would that be?” He comes to me, and helps me up. “Excited? This is what you've been asking for every step of the way.”

“Yeah.” I refrain from asking about the aforementioned steps. “I'm really excited.”

“Sofía is excited to see you as-well.”

“She's still there?” I clutch the hand-rail on the precipice of taking a dive, we bump over a wave, and then we plop against the water, going fast.

“Her first story did over a million views, a hundred interview requests, and that's not counting all the offers that are piling up. Just the lighthouse alone, studios want to start filming immediately.”

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Yeah?”

“I'm so proud of her. She's back to do her third, already acts like a grizzled veteran.” He looks at the gray clouds formed overhead. “She wants to live there, at Marybel's house. It's well taken care of, I don't see any other reason to say no, unless you want to.”

“Well.. We have to see how much I like it, first.”

Pascal laughs, bracing for the next bump. “You will.”

“Mr. Lamper.”

It came from the same voice that I opened my eyes to.

“A beer. You must be parched.” Says an old, short man. Despite his age, he carries a jovial energy, it's in his face, smiling and ready-to-please, hunched yet energetic in the movements he chooses to make. I take it from his hands, and he responds in a smiling nod.

“Engle will take good care of you, Dean.”

“What?”

“He'll take good care of you, like we talked about earlier. Your wish is his demand.”

“Mr. Williams is correct. If you desire it, I will make it so.”

I decided to melt into my vinyl seat after that.

After fifteen minutes of twiddling my thumbs, Dean leaps to me, pointing to something I only have to look up to see. It's Shere Island, my first response was laughing in awe, standing up despite how bumpy the ride is, and laughing. Pascal loves my response, he wraps an arm around my shoulders and tucks me into his chest.

“I didn't know the island had cliffs.” I'm in awe, it's bigger... a-lot bigger than I remembered.

My eyes trace to a statue high above leaning over the bluff, looking over the entire ocean.

“Take a walk along the coast. I thought the same thing the first time, but that's what years away from it does to you.” Pascal says.

We're coming closer to the wooden dock, on it lying a rowboat with two oars, but nothing is tied to the cleats, this is it.

“Where's Sofía?” I ask.

“You'll find her on the job.”

“Okay.” It's like a game. “Where do I stay?” I felt dumb for asking it so... close? When I can see the coast, I'm about to step onto the sand.. “What do I eat?”

“What do you think is weighing down the boat, Mr Lamper?” Engle says first, followed by Pascal who takes a step ahead. “Marybel's house, there's more than enough room for you and Sofía, and like I said, she's dying to see you.”

“Fuck. Where's my laptop?” I panic.

Pascal puts his hand on my shoulder again, but this time it feels assertive.

“Like we went over before. Everything is there for you, we sent in a boat bigger than this one a couple days ago, it had all your stuff in it, like we agreed. We're going to carry a few crates of supplies to the house, it'll be more than enough to last the thirty days we agreed upon, thirty days that can fluctuate to one week depending on how well you can keep it together.”

I stare at him blankly.

He continues. “Hey, are you okay, Dean?”

“I'm good. I'm good, Pascal.”

“Okay.” He smiles, and then kisses my forehead. It feels demeaning. “Write the story of your life. It's your time, go and do it.” We tied in, and I take my first step onto the dock, it trembles.

You can't break the same story twice. I feel like a child, given a couple cheers and hugs so I don't feel left out after my big-brother did something special, actually special. I was quiet for most of the time they carried in the crates, it took three hours, and it showed me a sign of Pascal I hadn't seen before, like an overseer, directing laborers who were hidden away in the cabin for the entire trip- I felt so out of the loop. I didn't see Sofía, Pascal assured me that she was somewhere taking pictures, documenting, and the island did truly feel large, moving from dense thicket, stepping over stones and rocks, finely grained sand to a paved road. While they opened the crates and started moving supplies into the Marybel house, I decided to take a walk, and take a good look at the lavender ocean I had dreamed about for so many nights.