Dressed in a tuxedo and polished wingtips, Marty sat at the table of honor near the front of the large room. To his right was Radhika, ravishing in a ruby-red, off-shoulder gown. She had aged gracefully over the years, her brown eyes remaining bright with humor. At some point she’d developed a white streak through her glossy black hair à la Elsa Lanchester in Bride of Frankenstein. She had been self-conscious of it at first, but he repeatedly told her it lent her a certain sophistication, and now she wore it with undyed pride. Also seated at the table were their three children. Sara, the eldest, had Rad’s eyes, sense of humor, and thin physique. She was in her final year at Bangor University in Wales, completing a degree in marine biotechnology. The other two kids had fallen farther from the tree and showed no interest in following in their father’s footsteps. Joe, fifteen, had his sights set on becoming an AI psychologist, and Freddie, eleven, had been talking nonstop about becoming a space tour guide after returning from his first family trip to the moon the year before.

Directly to Marty’s left was a conspicuously vacant seat that had been reserved for Dr. Elsa Montero. By the time the world had learned of the existence of merfolk, she had quietly gone off the radar. Marty had tried to get in touch with her over the years but had zero luck. The first he’d heard from her was when she’d rung him the week before to offer her congratulations on his lifetime achievement award. He invited her to the event, she demurred, he persisted, and she ended the call by telling him she would think it over.

As it turned out, she had decided not to come, and Marty was more disappointed than he would have anticipated; he had been looking forward to seeing her again.

To Rad he said, “Too much bubbly. Be back soon.”

“Don’t be long,” she replied, pecking him on the cheek. “They’ll be starting any minute.”

Marty made his way to the restroom, returning the smiles and nods of the people he passed. He relieved himself, rinsed his hands, and exhaled deeply—something he seemed to do more and more the older he became—as he stood in front of a mirror, studying his reflection. At seventy, he looked to himself as he always had, only with more wrinkles and gray in his sideburns.

Twenty-five years, he thought, reminding himself of the time that had passed since the events of Demon Island. Nevertheless, what happened then, and in the weeks and months that followed, still felt like yesterday.