What a magnificent day. And it was only going to get better.

He glanced to his right and saw a woman he recognized. A TV reporter for one of the cable business channels. He tried to recall her name. Geary, he though. Rebecca Geary.

Jesus. I’ve done her show.

Brandon Kyle felt a wave of fear rush through him. Derek had assured him he did not look at all like himself, but what if he was wrong? What if this woman recognized him?

Yes, he’d shaved his head, grown a mustache. He’d decided, at the outset, that he wasn’t going with some stick-on facial hair that might blow off before he’d even reached the island. The only thing fake was the artificial padding around his middle, a cummerbund of phony fat. Brandon Kyle had a reputation as a fitness buff. Washboard stomach, broad-chested, not the sort of guy you’d expect to grow a beer belly overnight. He’d made sure, back in Gandalf’s good times, that all corporate videos had at least one clip of him jogging or skiing or jumping out of a plane. (Okay, so that last one had been doctored. There was no fucking way he was going to take up parachuting.)

And he’d even practiced a different voice to use today. He hailed from the South, but his parents had moved away from Mississippi when he was only four, and growing up in New England had done much to erase that drawl. But he could fall back into it easily. He’d just hear his father’s Southern gentleman voice in his head, and out it would spew from his own mouth. He always thought, talking in that Southern accent, it was like having a splash of bourbon on your tongue.

When he caught the woman’s eye, he decided to take a chance that his disguise was adequate, and said, “How are you today?”

Rebecca Geary smiled and nodded as she said, “Just great. Beautiful day. Especially considering we’re just getting into fall.”

“It is that,” he said. “Be a bit chilly on the way over, I suspect.” He cocked his head. “I believe I recognize you from the TV.”

She nodded. “The Geary Report. Rebecca Geary.”

“That’s right. Good show. Watch it all the time.”

“Heading over for the Arrival thing, like the rest of us?” she asked.

Big nod. “I am indeed.”

“Pain in the ass,” she said. “Not even letting us take a car. My cameraman’s carrying so much gear he’ll be in physio for a year.”

“I guess they’re pretty serious about keeping the island . . . pure, I guess would be the word.”

“I gather the only vehicles on the island that aren’t self-driving are emergency ones,” she said. “Arrival hasn’t yet got an autonomous ambulance. God, my manners. Who are you with?”