Kevin disappeared into the walk-in, discovered the tray of gravlax in the back, brought it to the table and peeled away the plastic wrap. The parchment paper lay soaked, the peppercorns glistened, the dill still fragrant, though darker now. The salmon had marinated only overnight, but already the flesh had turned a slightly paler pink. He opened the lid of the garbage and slid the entire fish into the trash.

Douglas looked at him with dismay.

What are you doing?

I can’t serve this.

It’s off?

No. Kevin replied. He held the dripping dish over the garbage. He thought of telling Douglas that “gravlax” meant in Swedish “salmon from the grave.” He nodded instead toward the window.

It’s from out there. Would you eat anything that came from that sea?

He shook the last juices from the plate. It didn’t matter that he’d bought the fish the day before. For the near future—perhaps forever—anything that came out of that ocean was definitely off limits.

Sometime later that afternoon, a woman from the Red Cross called. They didn’t need the rooms anymore for the search and rescue; the army and the RCMP were setting up by the old naval yard on the north end of the island. They wanted to save the rooms at the inn for the family members, she explained. It took Kevin a beat to comprehend:

Family members?

Of the victims, the woman said flatly.

Of course. Kevin swallowed. They’d take all the family members they could; it was the least they could do. The woman couldn’t say when they were likely to arrive. Two days, three days, perhaps more. Everything depended upon the search and rescue—and if any of the 242 passengers could indeed be found—and whether their surviving family members actually wanted to make the trip to Trachis. Of course, she said, the airline would fully compensate the inn. Most people probably wouldn’t come, she speculated. But the island was the nearest landfall to the crash, and some no doubt would want to travel there—“for closure,” she added.