He accepted that this was his gait now. He could run; he could walk (he might never do it gracefully or be able to dance) but he was alive and that was all that mattered.

We were given permission to move Galloway from the infirmary and into my room under the proviso he carted the antibiotic drip and fluids wherever he went.

We spent two nights curled together on the floor with Pippa and Coco beside us.

Conner’s ghost never left, giving us strength to face what we must.

Galloway’s system (bolstered by drugs and intravenous nutrients) excelled with healing. His natural colouring returned, his smile appeared, and every hour he felt more alive in my arms.

The medical team kept a close eye on him. And all of us underwent a dentist visit for cleaning and X-rays.

I required a few fillings as did Pippa, but overall, our teeth were in good shape thanks to our flossing and bi-daily brushing, even with old toothbrushes with no paste.

We’d done what we could to stay in physical condition.

And it’d paid of (minus the lack of weight).

On the morning we cruised into Sydney Harbour, two things conflicted me.

One, I’d waited three and a half years to return home, and it’d finally come true. I hadn’t had to fly (thank God) and the cruise liner (along with its staff) had been the best integration into noisy society that we could ask for.

And two, I no longer thought of this metropolis as home. The itch to run grew stronger every wave we sailed over. Even the thought of seeing Madeline again couldn’t stop my overwhelming desire to hold the captain at gunpoint and order him to return to the high seas like any good pirate.

As the loud groan of the humongous anchor splashed into the harbour and jetty mates helped tether the floating behemoth to the dock, I trembled so hard, Galloway struggled to hold me.

The captain was ever professional, donating more clothes from the gift shop (and Coco a cute stuffed turtle), accepting no charge (not that we had any money), and providing scripts of antibiotics and vitamins before granting us safe passage to land.

He also pulled us aside before we entered the gangway and stuffed a piece of paper into Galloway’s hand. The random set of numbers meant nothing to me until Galloway exhaled heavily. “The coordinates?”

The captain nodded. “To return if you ever need to. Those exact coordinates will lead you back if you feel the urge.”

I’d hugged him then.

I’d squeezed him so hard because he’d just given us the key to paradise.

He’d given me the power to someday collect my phone with our memories. My notebook full of scribbled songs. And the four spirits who’d died and found salvation in the salty seas and sunshine.

If our future was too hard—if our dreams turned into a disaster—we had a safe haven to run to. An island that had almost killed us. But was ours, nevertheless.

We were the last to disembark (after watching two thousand people crawl like ants) and we didn’t do it alone.

Stefan and Finnegan escorted us down the gangway, handing us over to the grabby hands of the media, newsmongers, and awaiting immigration officials.

This was our new hell.

But at least, we had directions back to heaven.

One day.

Someday.

I wanted to go home.

Chapter Sixty-Nine

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G A L L O W A Y

......

“CAN YOU TELL us what happened on the island?”

“Did you resort to cannibalism?”

“Where are the others who crashed with you?”

“Do you regret your decision to board that helicopter?”

“The pilot’s family said you pressured him into flying when he advised it was a bad idea. Can you confirm?”

“Do you think you should be held accountable for Akin Acharya’s death?”

Bloody hell, they’re vultures.

Worse than vultures, rabid disgusting locusts.

“This way, please!” Someone in a navy suit flashed a clipboard above the heaving crowd of journalists.

Grabbing Estelle’s waist while she cradled Coco, I pinched Pippa’s elbow and manhandled, pushed, and shoved my way through the crowd.

“Tell us what happened!”

“Is it true you killed a man?”

“Why won’t you confirm that you’re responsible for the crash?”

By the time we made it to the glass doors of customs where seafaring passengers were processed, I was sweaty, angry, and more stressed since I was sentenced to jail for a crime I wished I hadn’t commit.

My system wasn’t running at top capacity and my head swam with nausea. The headaches had faded and the redness on my arm had turned to a blush rather than murder, but I still wasn’t well.

We shouldn’t have to put up with this crap.

We were tired.

We needed to rest.

Can’t they see that?

The man who’d waved us over clanged the door, locking it the moment we were inside. Waving at Stefan and Finnegan, I was glad we’d said goodbye before this circus because our unceremonious parting was short and messy.

Instantly, we were led into a private room away from the hustle of returning holidayers, treated like suspects rather than lucky survivors.

The man’s short hair gleamed like a doberman’s pelt beneath the glaring electric lights; his glasses reminded me how desperate I was to replace my prescription.

My fingers itched to steal his so I might see Estelle, Coco, and Pippa in crystal clarity rather than fuzzy haze.

Motioning us to sit, the man settled at the large table and set the clipboard down in front of him.