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tattoo on the corrugated metal roof of the waiting area, where Ricky was sitting immobile as a statue, his eyes closed. The crowd had thinned and now only the old man with the cough, a laborer with an obviously broken arm, and a fisherman with a gash on his hand remained.
    They took seats on the bench next to Ricky. He stirred and cracked an eye open. Remi smiled at him and he returned the favor with a tentative grin of his own.
    â€œAny word?” she asked.
    He shook his head. “No. But it’s only been a couple of hours. I don’t expect anything yet.”
    Neither had to voice the probability that, at the very least, his uncle would lose the leg. That he was still alive after the savage attack was miracle enough. Hopefully, that questionable luck would hold.
    Another hour went by and then Dr. Vanya pushed through the emergency room’s double doors, still wearing surgical scrubs. Ricky stood, and Sam and Remi joined him as she approached.
    â€œWell, the good news is, he’s stable. We managed to get enough blood into him so his chances look reasonable. But the next twenty-four hours will tell. The biggest risk now is that he succumbs to shock or that infection sets in. He’s in decent physical shape and fairly young, but there are no guarantees.”
    â€œAnd the leg?” Ricky asked softly.
    â€œThe bones were splintered into a hundred slivers by the jaws, so even if I’d been right there, we’d still have had to amputate. I’m sorry,” she said.
    â€œCan we see him?” Ricky asked.
    Dr. Vanya shook her head. “Let’s give him some time, shall we? Maybe this evening.” She turned her attention to Sam and Remi. “How did you happen to be so close when the attack happened? The crocodiles generally stay away from the tourist beaches. Hopefully, that hasn’t changed.”
    â€œWe were on the other side of the island with him. Pretty remote,” Sam explained, keeping it vague. It wasn’t his place to share the details of Leonid’s expedition, even though by now word of the attack had probably spread like wildfire, along with gossip about the buildings beneath the sea.
    â€œWhat on earth were you doing there?” she asked.
    â€œHelping a friend with a project,” Sam said.
    â€œA project?” Vanya pressed.
    â€œArchaeology.”
    â€œAh,” Vanya said as though that explained everything. “You’re American, aren’t you?”
    â€œOur accents give us away?” Remi asked.
    â€œWell, yes. Most of our visitors are from Australia and New Zealand. We don’t get nearly as many Americans as we did when I was growing up. Back then, there were still a lot of veterans who came to revisit the old battlegrounds and pay their respect. But no longer,” she explained.
    â€œOh, you’re an islander?” Remi said, surprised. There was no trace of the local pidgin accent in her speech.
    â€œUntil I was ten. Then my family moved to Sydney, where I went to school. Somewhere in all that I lost my accent.” She smiled. “But you know what they say: you can take the islander off the island, but you can’t take the island out of the islander. After I graduated and completed my residency, I wanted to give back to my people, so I returned nine years ago.”
    â€œThat’s a wonderful thing to do,” Sam said.
    â€œWell, it’s where I was born. My current project is raising funds for several rural clinics around the island. It may seem like a small place, but when you cut yourself or have an accident, traversing the roads can take a lifetime. And also for vaccinations and the like. Unfortunately, the government’s always been a disaster, so fate leaves it up to the private sector to do what it can.”
    â€œThat sounds like a noble calling,” Sam said. “Maybe you can give us some information about it?”
    Vanya appraised him. “Why? Feel like donating?”