“There’s no way he survived three days treading water.”

“What’s the longest a man can do that?”

“I read about a guy who lasted twenty-eight hours.”

“Still not three days.”

“He honestly thinks he’s God?”

“He had no life jacket!”

“Maybe he came from another boat.”

“If there were another boat, we would have seen it.”

Finally, Nina spoke up. She was the Galaxy’s hairstylist, born in Ethiopia. With her high cheekbones and flowing dark locks, she retains a certain elegance even here in the middle of the sea. “Has anyone considered the least likely explanation?” she asked.

“Which is?” Yannis said.

“That he’s telling the truth? That he’s come in our hour of need?”

Eyes darted from one to the next. Then Lambert started laughing, a deep, dismissive cackle. “Oh, yes! That’s how we all picture God. Floating like seaweed until you pull him into your boat. Come on. Did you look at him? He’s like some island kid who fell off his surfboard.”

We shifted our legs. No one said much after that. I looked up at the pale white moon, which hung large in the sky. Do some of us think it possible? That this strange new arrival is actually the Lord incarnate?

I can only speak for myself.

No, I do not.

Land

LeFleur drove the man called Rom to the north shore of the island. He tried to make conversation, but Rom answered with polite deflections: “Yes, Inspector” and “No, Inspector.” LeFleur eyed the glove compartment, where he kept a small flask of whisky.

“You live up by St. John’s?” LeFleur tried.

Rom half nodded.

“Where do you go liming?”

Rom looked at him blankly.

“Liming? Chilling? Hanging out?”

No response. They drove past a rum shop and a boarded-up disco/café, with turquoise shutters hanging loosely off their hinges.

“What about surfing? You do any surfing? Bransby Point? Trants Bay?”

“I don’t care much for the water.”

“Come on, man,” LeFleur laughed. “You’re on an island!”

Rom looked straight ahead. The inspector gave up. He reached for another cigarette. Through his rolled-down window, he glanced back at the mountains.

Twenty-four years before, Montserrat’s volcano, Soufrière Hills, erupted after centuries of silence, covering the entire southern part of the island in mud and ash. The capital was destroyed. Lava smothered the airport. Just like that, the nation’s economy evaporated in dark smoke. Two-thirds of the population fled Montserrat within a year, mostly to England, where they were given emergency citizen status. Even now, the island’s southern half remains uninhabited, an ash-covered “exclusion zone” of abandoned towns and villas.

LeFleur glanced at his passenger, who was tapping annoyingly on the door handle. He thought about calling Patrice, apologizing for this morning, leaving so abruptly. Instead he reached across Rom’s chest, mumbled “Excuse me,” and popped open the glove compartment, removing the whisky flask.

“You want some?” he asked.