“It was early this morning, apparently. I got a call from Dinesh at MOCHA in Colombo an hour ago and came here straightaway,” Ian said. “I couldn’t quite gather what had happened. He said the boat just suddenly exploded or something. There was a search, fishermen helped and all, but they’ve found no survivors. Dinesh is driving over to Batti this morning to meet with the police.”

Tusker handed the phone back and stared at Ian. “What the hell? That was a pretty new boat. Upali’s always safe. I’m going to go over there. You got the van here?”

Ian nodded. “Yeah, outside. I already packed some things. I assumed you’d want to head over there.”

Tusker wasn’t listening anymore. It was only a few days earlier when he and Upali were diving in Galle harbor and clinking lagers in the shed. Now, gone. It hit him viscerally, like a blow to the back of the head.

The winter when Tusker met Upali was one of the coldest Michigan’s Upper Peninsula had faced, the kind where you leave your car running all night so it starts the next morning. Tusker remembered sitting in the archaeology department’s lab, looking out the window and seeing this Indian-looking guy repeatedly slipping and falling on the icy sidewalk. He was wearing a cheap parka that was woefully inadequate in the face of the minus-30 windchills.

Tusker loved the winter, relishing the challenge of not only surviving it, but getting out and enjoying its frigid beauty. He and Upali couldn’t have been more opposite, but ended up sharing an apartment on campus and became best friends. Upali would always crank up the thermostat when Tusker was away so that when Tusker would return, he’d find Upali studying at the dining table in shorts and a T-shirt. Tusker would turn down the heat and fling open the windows, Upali laughing gleefully. Then he’d do it again the next day.

During the next four years at school, Tusker learned to cook curry and eat spicy foods. Upali learned to ski. Tusker grew to respect Upali for tolerating not only the cold and the chilly drysuit dives in Lake Superior, but also the homogeneous culture of the upper Midwest. By the end of their third year, they were selling curry packets out of the back of Tusker’s pickup truck at the farmer’s market, a little slice of Sri Lanka in Michigan.

“We can collect our dive gear at the shed and then head out.” Ian broke into Tusker’s thoughts. “I’ve phoned ahead to this guy, Sebastian, who runs the Deep Blue, where the MOCHA team was staying. He said we can stay there.”

Newly vacant rooms, Tusker thought and grimaced. He was already turning to head back upstairs. “Give me a couple of minutes. I’m going to grab a few things in my room.”