But I break off at the flash of motion I see, and I’m hit with that same spike of adrenaline you get when a baseball flies straight at your face—my eyes squeeze shut, and I flinch away—

But it’s too late.

Not half a second later I feel something warm and furry pressed over my nose and mouth, something writhing, with arms banded around the back of my head.

A monkey.

Amonkey.

Hanging off my face, using me like her own personal jungle gym.

“Oh!” Molly says as her body collides with mine, and I realize with a start that Señorita’s tail is still curled around her neck.

“Get—off—” I mutter, except it’s more of a mumble because of the monkey-over-face situation, and my mouth snaps shut immediately lest I get a taste of fur or something else equally as disgusting. I claw at Señorita—she shouldnotbe this strong; that is giving her far too much power—not bothering to be gentle as I reach up and uncurl her arms from around my head.

“Señorita, naughty girl,” Nilson says. His voice is no more than gently chiding—I needoutrage,Nilson—while off to the side, Wes is bent double with laughter. Nilson moves closer and uses one giant hand to pluck Señorita off my face.

“Ow!” I yelp as she leaves me with her parting gift: one long finger, jammed into my ear with unnecessary force.

Violence against animals is wrong,I tell myself as I glare at the she-demon now settling happily on Nilson’s shoulder.Violence against animals is wrong.

“A pleasure as always,” I say through gritted teeth to the little monkey.

“Sorry about that,” Nilson says, glancing back and forth between me and Molly.

Molly just laughs—shelaughs!—and gives Señorita an affectionate look. “That’s okay,” she says.

It most certainly is not okay.

But I’m clearly the only one with problems being mauled by devil monkeys, so I don’t say anything else. I just give Nilson his tip, passing a neatly folded bill into his hand, before gently redirecting the O’Malleys. Wes is wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, but he calms down as we make our way further into port.

It ends up taking us longer than I expected for us to flag down a taxi. Several come and go, but someone else always gets there before us. Thankfully the vehicle we finally claim for ourselves is a large, clunky van that seats all of us comfortably. I direct the driver to the ferry pier about ten minutes from the port terminal, and from there it’s a twenty-minute boat ride to our destination. The first thing I do when we board the speedboat is find the stash of disinfectant wipes and give myself a sanitizing wipe down. I get some of the soapy residue in my mouth, and I’m honestly not even upset. In fact, if anything, I feel better. I need to remove all traces of monkey from my person.

Then, once I’m satisfied that I’m clean, we’re off to our destination.

Van Gogh Island is an underwhelming two square miles, roughly. What it lacks in area, though, it makes up for in beauty. The waters are a clear turquoise color, the sand golden, the vegetation a lush, greedy green. It’s the kind of place that ends up on postcards and screensavers—lazy palm trees, dazzling sunsets, warm nights under a crystal-clear sky.

It’s that crystal-clear sky I’m the most interested in, of course. My colleagues and I have been working hard to install a top-of-the-line research campus here, but it hasn’t been without its setbacks. Parcel delivery out here is spotty, with anything we need being delivered to St. Thomas and then transferred to Van Gogh Island ourselves. Installing a research-grade telescope and dome enclosure, as well as building a 70,000-square-foot facility, requires a lot of moving parts to come together. It’s going well now, though, something we’re all grateful for.

The speedboat we’re using technically belongs to the University of Florida, but it’s one of my favorite places to be out here. The wind in my face and the sounds of the ocean are far more relaxing to me than the presence of other people. I ferry a group of life-vest-clad O’Malleys across the water, with Wes perched next to me and the others toward the back. I glance over my shoulder to check on them every so often, but the view never changes: Mr. and Mrs. O’Malley resting, looking happily around, and Molly halfway out of her seat, red hair whipping in the wind, her face a picture of utter delight.

I direct my eyes back ahead of me and keep them there for the remainder of the journey, until we reach our destination.

The “port” on Van Gogh Island is only a port because we call it that. In reality, it’s little more than a few meters of planked wood and several posts where we can secure our speedboats. It’s almost empty now—Christmas is less than a week away, so most of our employees are home or traveling to see family—save for a couple of the guys on the general contractor’s crew. They’ll be heading out a bit later today, though, from what I remember, and I’ll head back to St. Thomas tonight when we’re done here. We’ll all resume work after the new year.

The O’Malleys and I spill onto the port deck one by one, the breeze tugging at our clothes and hair as we move. It’s only once we’ve reached the sand that I stop, gesturing at everything from the ocean to the beach to the dense greenery.

“Well,” I say, “welcome to Van Gogh Island.”

Mrs. O’Malley claps her hands like I’ve just given a speech, and Mr. O’Malley nods, the sun glinting off his bald head. Wes is already bounding ahead.

Molly, though, smiles up at me from a few feet away. “Oh!” she says. “Van Gogh Island—I get it.”

“Get what?” Wes says over his shoulder.

She turns and looks at him. “Van Gogh. Vincent Van Gogh. He paintedThe Starry Night?” She twirls her finger around to encompass our surroundings. “And this is an astronomy research facility.” She turns to me. “Right? Or am I way off?”

“No,” I say, stunned. “That’s exactly right. That’s where we got the name.”