Like this he slept off the first portion of the morning, a shape in the grass, perfectly at home, perfectly ignored. Birds in low flight flicked their shadows across his shirt. A small topaz beetle climbed the slope of his wrist. When he woke, and before he opened his eyes, he wondered if it would be the same, if the intoxication of the dawn had been no more than that, a passing excitement, but when he sat up and looked around he found that though the light was different (the sun pouring from a sky almost cloudless, so that the meadow had exchanged a quality of water for a quality of glass) the morning was intact, had lost none of its enchantment, and he climbed to his feet ready for anything, any extravagance—a whale the size of Gibraltar, a parliament of drowned men, some green-eyed Christ patiently stripping religion from the land . . . Instead, he caught sight of Corporal Calley climbing up from the beach to the plateau. He was wearing his coat still, while he, Medina, stood perfectly warm in breeches and shirt. As he watched him come there was a moment of misgiving, a second, the fragment of a second, like a stumble of the heart, but it changed nothing. In truth, it felt that nothing could be changed.

“I’ve been looking for you,” said Calley.

“And I have been here,” said Medina, spreading his hands as though to welcome Calley to what he had found, his half-acre of the beautiful.

“Doing what?”

“Sleeping.”

“Well, that’s fucking useful. Have you found a boat?”

“I have not. Have you?”

“This is the wrong side of the island,” said Calley. “This is south.”

“And you wish to go north.”

Calley looked at him. He came closer. Six, eight steps between them now. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asked.

“Nothing is wrong with me.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then why are you acting like a cunt?”

“To you,” said Medina, “most people are acting the cunt.”

“Put your boots on.”

Medina did not move.

“I said put your boots on.”

“I will put my boots on,” said Medina. “But first I will tell you what I have decided. What I decided this very morning. I will take no more orders from you. I will have no more insults. The story between us is over. I am going home. Or I am going . . . somewhere. I have not yet chosen the place or the route but I am going where you will not be going. That I do know.” He paused, trying to judge the effect his words were having. That Calley was listening to him and listening closely, he had no doubt. Beyond that . . .