By eight that morning the recovery operation resumed again. Sea King helicopters thudded across the waters. Naval ships appeared once more offshore. The divers went down, the ROVs, searching again for the black box, the flight data recorder, for thus far only the voice recorder had been found. In a hangar on the mainland, workers fit together recovered bits of the fuselage on a giant jig. All over the island, ground searchers started their rounds once more. If anyone had entertained hopes of a lone survivor before, the storm dashed any such speculation: for nothing could have survived such a gale, such waves. The storm spread wreckage in a fan shape one hundred miles from the crash, and evidence had been pulverized into a fine particulum. Calls came now from eighty miles down the coast, where someone had found an airplane meal washed ashore, the molded entrée plate completely intact: beef bourguignon and a flowered carrot still perfect in its plastic wrap.

At Trachis Inn, the guests returned to their cottages to shower, change, pack. The Italians left just after breakfast. Claartija’s brother too. He’d been planning on leaving for days. There was nothing left for him on the island, and he’d never really wanted to come in the first place. It was Claartija’s idea; she’d insisted they go not just to Nova Scotia but to Trachis Island itself. Her brother, however, couldn’t care less. Once their parents’ bodies had been identified the first day, he’d wanted to head home. He was interested only in the lawsuit, and the whole time on the island he’d jotted notes, made lists, written down what the airline representatives said (and what they didn’t say), for who knew, it might be important for the lawsuit—especially if they said something stupid. His early morning phone calls to Amsterdam, to New York City, his interviews with lawyers maddened Claartija, for it seemed so heartless—his way of grieving. How different the two of them were. Seven years separated them, but it may as well have been decades. Claartija always suspected one of them—probably she—was an adopted child.

She watched her brother shoulder his aluminum briefcase and climb into the back of a waiting limousine. She felt a momentary pang of anxiety; he was, after all, her only brother. But she’d made her decision the day before to stay on the island. She wasn’t ready to leave yet, and the airline would fly her back whenever she wanted. There was nothing he could say about it now.

Diana Olmstead caned out to the driveway to wave good-bye to those leaving. Kevin came out too. Afterward, Diana Olmstead put an arm around Claartija’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. Mrs. McIntyre padded over on sneakers and held out an offering to Claartija: an open tin of Altoids. Wintergreen.