“Oh, indeed.” He sighs.

“Indeed! These rumors are like wildfire online. Such poppycock!”

I don’t believe I’ve ever said “poppycock” before.

“Now unfortunately, you won’t get to meet my wife, as she’s already on the island.”

“The island?”

“Yes, um”—he flushes ever so slightly—“it’s all silly, her great grandfather, um, bought it. Probably won it in a poker game.”

Yes, people win islands in poker games all the time. He seems embarrassed by his wife’s fortune. My stomach churns. I wish I had the opportunity to experience such embarrassment. But I smile. He’s trying to be self-deprecating.

He continues. “They say he made his money as a shipping magnate, but I have a suspicion he was more like a rumrunner. Perhaps a poppy trader.”

“Well, that’s—”

“Alright, so, if you don’t mind, I am in a bit of a scramble to get to the train. I always seem to leave the packing for the last minute. However, we have left a few papers for you, nothing big really, just instructions about this or that. And if you have any questions, I did leave a phone number. Although, sometimes service can be a bit spotty out there.”

“On the island. Yes, of course.”

He’s scurrying around now, looking befuddled and a bit unnerved. His style of dress is straight out of the academic costume department. Tweed. Classic lines. Oxford shoes.

“That’s okay! Don’t mind me. I’ll just . . . make up my room . . .”

“Yes, yes! Take any one you choose! We aren’t fussy about such things.”

With that he scratches the thinning vestiges of brown hair on his head and scurries down the hallway.

“Don’t forget to check the papers in the kitchen! Nothing much. Just some important tips,” he assures me from what looks like a study.

A curious thing. On the bookshelf, tucked between the hundreds of books, mid-shelf, is a frog in some sort of liquid, floating in a jar. The professor notices me looking at it.

“Ah, yes. A strange gift from one of my students. A biology major. Not sure if it was a backhanded insult, honestly.” He chuckles to himself.

But I stay looking at the suspended frog, his legs wading out underneath him as if in an eternal jump. Poor frog. What did he do to live out his afterlife on display in a glass jar, a musing for another, more macabre species?

A cold species, really, to keep such relics around.

“Hope you like reading! We have quite a collection of books around here, feel free to peruse anything. No use in them just sitting around collecting dust,” he shouts out again, organizing, then scratching his head, organizing some more. Under his breath, I hear him talking to himself. “Let’s see . . . oh yes. Right.”

I stand there, not sure if I should go up the stairs or wait for him to leave to start my exploration.

I’ll just wait. Seems more polite.

A cursory glance around the room tells me that someone is a meticulous duster. You could eat off the floor. Is there a maid? Does someone else live here? Or does she come maybe once a week?