“Save some for me,” I said to Quon, heading down to the stream to wash up. On hands and knees I put my weary head down in the cold stream water, slapping it to my face, trying to coax myself back to life. Before indulging in breakfast, I fetched the aluminum pot and went to the fire to brew coffee, now my self-appointed job, as I’d learned no one else in this crew knew how to do it right. It wasn’t Starbuck’s, but it was strong and about as flavorful as campfire coffee gets. It amazed me how delicious a simple breakfast could be out on the road. I was earning and appreciating my meals in a way I never had when I’d spent my days behind a desk.

“Anyone hear a horse in our camp last night?” I asked.

“A horse? No way,” David said. “Horses are very rare in Skiathuros. Only the extremely wealthy own them. Have you seen any besides the blood bay ridden by the girl in black?”

“No,” I said. “But I heard one. I’m sure of it.”

“I hear many things in the night,” Quon said. “But often I wonder whether they’re part of this world or the surrounding ones.”

Sipping my brew, I studied Quon across the fire, his face radiant. He looked back down in his TravelGuide. The moody, insecure young man had changed since we crossed the chasm. Every chance he had, his nose was in the book. Every time we met someone on the road he spoke of the King. Though he was young, his passion for the King surpassed my own, perhaps all of ours.

Why does Quon burn with a fire I don’t?

Did I resent him for his faith, because I found myself questioning what the King had said and done? Perhaps. Still, I cared about him, wanted to look out for him. He was so young and inexperienced, so full of potential, so much like Brian. I walked around the fire and sat next to him and asked him what he was reading. His eyes lit up, and he was eager to share what he’d been learning. We talked most of the day, right into the evening.

The next morning I walked close beside Quon again, and we talked about many things. Finally I asked him, “Have you always lived in Skiathuros?”

His eyes widened. He looked both ways, then whispered, “Have you?”

“No,” I replied. “I arrived here in a storm, how or why I don’t know. Something was happening to me before I came, something big, but I just can’t remember it. It’s driving me nuts.”

“Did you end up … in a cave?” he asked.

“Yes! Did you?”

He nodded.

“Was there writing on the wall?”

“Yes. A three-line message in Chinese.”

“Chinese? The writing I saw was English,” I said.

“I only speak Chinese,” Quon replied.