Page 41 of The Chaperones

“It’s all part of the job. Just making the rounds to see if anyone would prefer to leave now.”

“We’ll take our chances,” she says without delay. “Can’t promise the same for the others.”

After I’ve alerted all the parents at the campsite, none of whom fully grasp the possibility that they could be trapped here, I head down to the lower loop, stopping first at a recently retired couple’s campsite. They’ve been here for two nights. It’s on their bucket list—not only the Channel Islands but every national park in America.

They take longer than I’d expect to decide that they will pack up and leave today. After awe, disappointment’s probably the most common experience at Limuw.

“Sorry about this,” I say to them. “Mother nature is her own boss.”

I radio down to the dock that they’ll be on the 4:30 p.m. boat.

Between the volunteers, Sam, and me doing the rounds at the campsites, we’re able to get to all but four of the campers leaving tomorrow. I leave a note under a rock at their tents, in case they come back before the boat leaves. As I’m heading back to my UTV, I feel the pull of site eleven, John Smith. The tent is zipped tight. Even from across the campground I sense someone inside. A tightness spans my chest as I make my way over to the site.

Before I get to his tent, I see two families from the school trip, scrambling with all their stuff toward the dock.

“No way we’re getting stuck here,” one of the mothers jokes, and I can’t ignore the irritation it sparks through the tension of John Smith at site eleven. Not everyone who comes here deserves Limuw.

When I’m a few feet from the tent, I instinctively pop the thumb strap on my service weapon. I have no intention of using it, but it’s a security blanket. My stomach clenches. I’m close enough to his tent to brush its fabric. I don’t touch it. Instead I clear my throat.

“Mr. Smith?”

“What is it?”

“This is Ranger Emmy. I’m letting everyone know that the boats for tomorrow have been canceled due to inclement weather. If you were wanting to leave, you won’t be able to.”

“I’m here until Sunday.”

I wait for him to unzip the tent, to look me in the eye, so I can write him off as weird instead of menacing. I hear a shuffle inside. The zipper doesn’t vibrate. It doesn’t inch open.

“Just so you know, the last boat until Sunday morning at the earliest leaves in about forty minutes.”

“I’m not leaving.”

I hesitate. I want to tell him that he has to go, but I have no authority to do this.

Back in my UTV, I do my breathing exercises, reminding myself that not every gruff man is dangerous, that it’s my past, not John Smith, that scares me. Usually, the breathing exercises do their job. Right now, every instinct in me is raging. I feel it as certainly as I have ever felt anything. He shouldn’t be on this island, not without the possibility of leaving.