Kyle hesitated one final moment, as though steeling himself for a long journey. He let out a long breath, nodded to himself, then turned and started walking toward the ferry. He fell into line with several others as they reached the metal ramp that led to the open ferry bay that would, any other day, be filling up with vehicles.

There was no ticket to show, no fare to pay this day. Arrival had essentially commandeered the ferry, and was picking up all costs.

A media ID, however, was required.

A stunning blonde woman in a clingy black dress was checking everyone’s credentials. She looked like she’d just walked off the set of The Price Is Right, Kyle mused. It surprised him that Arrival, considering who its CEO was, would resort to such outdated practices. The slinky model perched over a new car, that was something most auto shows had abandoned years ago along with in-dash cassette players.

Kyle reached into his jacket and produced a laminated card with his photo on it. The woman leaned in, inspected it, and flashed a mouth full of perfect, white teeth.

“Thank you, Mr. . . . Stapleton.” She grinned. “Wheel Base Trends, right, nice to see you. This headshot does not do you justice.”

He laughed. “You should see my passport pic. It looks like one of those shots the police issue when they’re trying to identify someone they’ve fished out of the Hudson River.”

The woman chuckled.

“How long’s the crossing?” he asked her.

“About an hour,” she replied. “They’re calling for rain, maybe fog, later in the day, so that might cause a delay on our return. But I’m sure it won’t be a big problem.”

“How’s the ferry in fog?”

The woman shrugged. “I work for Arrival, not the ferry company, but they’ve got all sorts of radar, right? Because they can do this run at night. I guess the ferries are already pretty much self-driving, aren’t they?”

“Suppose so,” Kyle said. “But they’re a bit tricky when it comes to the McDonald’s drive-through.”

Another laugh. “You’re funny,” she said, waving him on.

Once on the ferry, he climbed three sets of stairs to reach an upper level where there was a snack bar. Normally, all one could get was coffee and soft drinks and bags of potato chips and maybe a plastic-wrapped sandwich, but today, the Arrival corporation had laid on all kinds of goodies. Pastries, a guy making omelettes, a woman running a cappuccino machine. Trays overloaded with fruit and cheese. All Kyle wanted was a regular coffee, which he took in a paper cup, then headed out to the deck for some fresh air.

Standing at the railing, he gazed out across the water. There, more than five miles out, stretched across the horizon, sat Garrett Island. Brandon Kyle breathed in the sea air, felt the breeze on his face.