The news that morning kept changing. First there was talk of survivors, a “soft landing” in the ocean. Then the sun rose and the day began again—a day much like any other in September, with a dazzling sky and a warm wind—and it became painfully clear there’d be few, if any, survivors. Helicopters thwacked overhead. The windsurfers packed and left. The phones never stopped ringing. Now it was the press calling, from Paris, from Amsterdam, from Tokyo and New York City. Everyone wanted a room; there were so few on the island. How had they gotten the number for Trachis Inn? (they weren’t in the Michelin or on the Web). The assistant of a famous American newscaster called four times. Could the newsman spend a night at the inn and do a stand-up from the bluff? No, Kevin was adamant. No press: The Red Cross needed the rooms. The assistant pleaded, cajoled, then offered—sotto voce—an obscene amount of money, which only stiffened Kevin’s resolve. He’d always wanted to use the line but never had the opportunity, and now it gave him so little satisfaction: Sorry, he intoned before hanging up, there’s no room at the inn.

Around ten o’clock Douglas returned, walleyed, exhausted. He leaned against the kitchen stove holding a mug of coffee. He talked a blue streak about what he’d witnessed the night before at Government Dock. Everyone on Trachis who had a boat had sailed into the fog as soon as they’d gotten the call or heard the crash. Fishermen in skiffs, yachtsmen, lobstermen, all neighbors Douglas knew by name or reputation. Each had gone out into the dark, hopeful, expectant. Douglas had waited on the dock with dozens of others and a score of ambulances with their mini bars flashing, ready to receive the injured. They waited for hours, with generators humming and arc lights angled toward the water. But not one boat returned with a living person. As the night wore on, they heard the crackle of radio reports, the grim news from out in the fog. Yellow flares kept cascading from hovering helicopters, lighting up the sea in a scrim of jaundiced smoke. When the first fishing boat returned, the men onboard could hardly speak. What they’d seen was horrifying: a field of debris miles in radius, bits of foam insulation, airplane seats, plastic cups, luggage. Not one survivor, only body parts, everywhere. Legs. Elbows. Tissue. Douglas helped offload some plastic bags into a refrigerated truck.

Enough! Kevin held up a hand to stop him. He didn’t want to hear any more. Hadn’t he seen enough the night before?

Douglas took a long gulp of coffee. He was hungry; he was wired; he needed to get some rest.