Ha shrugged. “So do I. I think that’s normal.”

“Do you?” Evrim turned to her, and Ha recognized the look on their face. This expression came through perfectly. It was hope—the naked hope that another being had understood. Truly understood. It was so moving that Ha almost wanted to put her arms around Evrim. She had not thought it was possible to be more alone than she often felt—but now she saw it most certainly was.

Then the open, hopeful expression faded with a blink. Evrim’s face returned to its default state—an approximation of neutral, collegiate friendliness. An approximation only. It struck a false note. Yes, Evrim was more alone than she was. “Yes. I would imagine so,” said Evrim. “You are also a very singular person. For the record—while we are sharing confidences—I believe your book How Oceans Think is one of the most brilliant things I have ever read. Not just on cephalopod intelligence: On consciousness itself. On communication. Once I read it, I knew this was a puzzle I could not unravel without you.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” Ha did not like to talk about the book. She did not like being praised for it.

“Not that my opinion matters much. It’s not my field. But I found your book comforting. I felt … it seemed to describe … well, more about that later. Dr. Mínervudóttir-Chan says I need to work on sharing a bit less. She says humans value reticence. Especially in me.”

“I memorized one of my worst reviews,” Ha said, smiling bitterly. “‘In this book, Dr. Ha Nguyen swims around with cephalopods and then asks a lot of questions. Unsure whether she is a neuroscientist or a philosopher, she ends up being neither.’ I rather liked that one. At least it was witty. And probably correct.”

“Your colleagues respect your insights greatly. They say you have invented a new field, and the problem is not your work: it is that nobody is yet capable of understanding it. One of them called it ‘the science of a future I would be grateful to live in.’”

“That is kind of them.”

“Well, the book was like a message in a bottle, sent from one deserted island to another. It brought you here. And here, maybe you can answer your critics, once and for all.”

“I think the rule,” Ha said, “is never to answer critics. One simply moves on with the work.”

“I agree—that is a better strategy. Anyway—I am glad that you are here. I think you will do your best work on this island.”

“I hope so. Thank you for your trust. And it’s we. We will do our best work here. Together.”

For a moment that flash of vulnerability crossed Evrim’s features. But they said nothing.

The passing cloud.