But then I do—see him, I mean. Then I see him stumbling back into the light and waving up at us: sweepingly, expansively, a skinny, bearded, shirtless man—it is easily ninety degrees, inexplicable for November—a desert island survivor. “He sees something, someone is coming.” I glance at Peter but find I can hardly look at him, hardly look at either of them. “He’s in trouble—serious trouble—whoever he is. Take us down.”
Peter frowns. “After what happened at the shopping center?” He glances at Sunny, privately, knowingly. “That’s a negative.”
I look at Sunny, who also frowns. “He’s right, Preston. We shouldn’t risk it.” She shakes the hair out of her eyes, lifts her mic. “Are you rolling?”
I peer through the viewfinder at the man—at the desert island survivor who is backing toward his tru
