Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

The girl I was talking to the entire flight has disappeared.

I've stepped off the floatplane, the propellers still sputtering in rotation as I take the hand of a lanky man in a rain jacket who introduces himself as David Chen, manager of Madrona Lodge. But as I look behind me for the bright and bubbly Amani in her pale pink hijab, who I just spent an hour conversing with in the seat across from mine, she's no longer on the plane. The two other passengers are still on board—a bushy-browed man and a thin-lipped woman whom the co-pilot told me were new staff at the Madrona Foundation—sitting in the back row and watching me with idle curiosity.

But no Amani.

"Are you alright?" David says, giving my hand an unsettling squeeze, which brings my attention back to him. "I said I'm David Chen."

"Oh. Sydney Denik," I absently introduce myself, pulling my hand away from his as subtly as possible as I find my balance on the dock, meeting his inquisitive dark eyes for just a moment before I start scanning the plane again. "Sorry, I…I was just talking to someone on the plane, and now she's gone."

"Amani?" he asks, and I nod. "She went up ahead of you."

I look up the dock. There's a steep ramp, thanks to the low tide, and a long wharf leading to the land, but there's no sight of her. I frown. How is that possible?

"You likely didn't notice," he goes on. "Wouldn't be the first time a new student has become enraptured by the scenery here. We've even had a person fall off the dock because they were so distracted. It was quite the welcome, I'm sure," he adds with a chuckle.

But I was the first to step off the plane , I want to tell him. I swear I was . But I realize that arguing with the manager of the lodge wouldn't be the best start for me, especially when things are already so precarious. And perhaps he's right. Maybe I didn't notice Amani disembarking before me. Already, my brain feels a little fuzzy, probably from the relief of finally getting here without a hitch.

Amani talked the entire flight about how excited she was about being selected for the Madrona Foundation's student program, and I could hardly get a word in edgewise, which was fine by me. I try to stay silent when I first meet people, trying to figure out how to wear my mask, what kind of person I need to be for the conversation. So I listened and stared out the window at the scenery for the flight from Vancouver to this remote inlet on Vancouver Island's northwest coast, soaring over glittering straits dotted with white ferries, thick green forest, milky blue alpine lakes, and craggy, snowcapped peaks that have yet to thaw in the May sunshine.

But the further north we went, the more the landscape was blotted out by clouds and fog. In fact, our pilot had to circle for about twenty minutes before we landed, waiting for the mist to clear enough for a clear view of the water.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" David remarks. His hands go behind his back, and he rocks on the heels of his fancy dress shoes, which seem out of place on the dock. He sniffs the air in a perfunctory way, as if he's encouraging me to look at the scenery.

I expected the location to remind me of home—I grew up in Crescent City, California, so I'm no stranger to fog, ocean, and towering trees—but here, the elements are amplified, as if they have an edge to them. The fog is more corporeal yet delicate, reminding me of cobwebs that don't seem to move but stretch across the tips of the trees. The trees themselves—Douglas fir, western cedar, Sitka spruce—aren't as wide as the redwoods, but they're taller, their boughs are heavier, their trunks rich with moss and lichen. The undergrowth, too, is wildly overgrown, and my eyes have a hard time taking in all the different vegetation in riotous shades of green—salal bushes, Oregon grape, wild ginger, and massive sword ferns.

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."

I knew this was coming, but even so, the idea of being without the internet and my phone scares the hell out of me. Each student that is accepted into this particular program is told that because of the foundation's nature, not only do we have to sign NDAs—which I did the other day—but we have to hand over our phones, and we weren't allowed to bring laptops, tablets, or any kind of electronic communication device until the program finishes at the end of August.

It will be good for you , I remind myself. You need this break. From everything.

David clears his throat. "Don't worry, you'll get used to being out of touch. You'll even welcome it. We've found it creates greater comradery between the students, as a bonus. And of course, you get to make calls every Friday, and your family will always be able to contact you."

He must know I have no family. I figure that's partly why I got accepted; they learned of my income and orphan status and decided to have pity on me. Then again, perhaps David doesn't know all the histories of each student. I bite my tongue and manage to refrain from saying anything, even though I have a hard time not correcting people when they're wrong.

"Since you've been on the website, you must know the history of this place?" he asks as we approach the lodge to our right. It's a dark and foreboding thing, even in the daylight, two stories high, worn wood recently stained a blackish brown. The length of it is perched on the rocks above the shoreline, reminding me of a predator about to pounce. A narrow boardwalk snakes along the front, peppered with the occasional wooden bench, and flower baskets hang on the railing, packed with delicate ferns, their tips wet with dew.

"Old cannery, wasn't it?" I say. The only sound is the occasional haunting call of a Bewick's wren and the water lapping at the rocks on the shore. I was expecting it to be bustling with the other students and researchers, but instead, the whole lodge seems to be holding its breath, like it's waiting for something.

Like it's waiting for you . The thought flits through my mind, causing the skin at the back of my neck to prickle. Even the row of four-paned windows along the front reminds me of a multi-eyed creature, ever watching.

"Correct." David's mild voice brings me out of my overactive imagination. "Was a functional cannery until the 1940s, crab and clamming at first, later salmon and halibut. It was then repurposed into a fishing lodge after that until we swept in fifteen years ago and transformed it into the foundation's lodge and headquarters."

"Am I the first to arrive?" I ask as I follow him to the black wood door, noticing a small video camera above it, pointed right at me. I self-consciously correct my posture.

"You're the last, actually," he says which takes me by surprise. "Everyone is already in the learning center getting oriented."

My stomach churns. I hate being the last one, even though it's common with my time blindness. It's why I set a million alarms and plan to be places far ahead of time (and yet still end up running late). But this was the plane they said for me to be on, so all of this is out of my control.

"So I'm late?" I whisper as he puts his hand on the doorknob.

"Not late. You're perfectly on time."

He opens the door and ushers me inside the building.

Immediately, I'm met with the smell of cedar and woodsmoke, the room looking exactly as a former fishing lodge should. There's a fireplace at the far end, small flames crackling, an elk head above the mantle. Shelves packed with books run along the worn wood walls, with small native carvings on display. In the center of the cavernous room are leather couches and upholstered chairs with plaid blankets draped over the backs and a couple of rough-hewn coffee tables carved from cedar. In the corner, a staircase leads to the second floor.

"This will be your common room," he says, gesturing to the cozy space.

To the left of me is a closed door with a reception sign on it. David leads me to it just as it opens and a woman steps out. She's about as short as I am, maybe five three, in her mid-forties, with a brown bob and thick-cut bangs with a cherubic face, wearing a blue flannel shirt and a load of silver bangles around her wrist.

"Sydney, this is Michelle," he says. "Michelle, Sydney Denik is here."

"Our last arrival," Michelle says, nodding profusely. Her smile is plastered on her face from ear to ear, a little too wide. She extends her hand, her bangles clinking together, and gives me a quick, albeit sweaty, shake. Her hand trembles slightly under my grasp.

"I was just telling Sydney she's not late. She's perfectly on time," he says as I fight the urge to wipe my palm against my jeans.

"Of course, of course!" Michelle exclaims loudly. "No, you're not late at all. Right on time, right on time. So nice to finally meet you."

"Did you already check Amani in?" I ask her.

Michelle frowns for a moment and exchanges a confused glance with David before she goes, "Oh, Amani. Yes. With the headscarf."

"Hijab," I correct her.

"Yes, hijab." She nods vigorously, smiling again. "Yes. Of course. Yup. She went straight to her room. Would you like to do the same? The stewards will bring your bags. Or David can take you right to the learning center and get you introduced to all the other students and the?—"

"Before we do that," David interjects, "it's time that Sydney hands over her phone."

"Of course," Michelle says, her cheeks going pink. She gives me an anxious look. "Sorry, dear, I know it's a painful process."

She holds out her hand expectantly.

I sigh and fish my phone out of my jacket. I tap the screen once just so I can see the wallpaper of my grandmother's smiling face one last time. But when I do so, something isn't right about the screen. Before it has time to register, Michelle has taken my phone from me.

"Wait, can I see that again?" I say, trying to take it back.

"Sorry," she says, letting out a nervous laugh as she quickly slips it into her back pocket. "I know it's hard, but you'll get used to it. Everyone says they appreciate talking on the phone and the landline so much more. You'll look forward to your Friday nights. And of course, there's?—"

David clears his throat, cutting her off. "Now that the hard part is done, let me show you to your room," he says to me, putting his hand at my back briefly before giving Michelle a curt nod. "Thank you, Michelle."

"Yes. Of course," she says before she scurries back into her office.

Yet I can't stop thinking about my phone. About what should have been a picture of my grandmother, about a year before she died. It was one of the harder days, when Alzheimer's had taken over her nearly completely, but suddenly she remembered who I was. She looked at me and smiled. "Sydney," she had said, with so much love it broke me. It was so beautiful and pure and real. I'd taken a picture of that moment. That's been my wallpaper ever since.

But when I tapped on the screen, for that brief second, that's not the picture I saw. It was a different picture of my grandmother taken earlier that same day. In that picture, she was angry and confused, staring right at the camera, wanting me to leave.

A warning.