Free Winter in June by Kathryn Miller Haines

you, but I’d rather be sick than lonely.”

CHAPTER 6
All the Comforts of Home
    The ship made three stops over the course of the next twenty-four hours. Two of them were under the cover of night, and although we didn’t know who left the ship at that time, it was obvious it was the majority of our population. As we arrived at our third and final stop, Carson Dodger knocked on our doors and let us know we would be leaving shortly.
    We didn’t know where we were, and given the orders we’d received about questioning our destination, we knew we weren’t supposed to ask. But when I looked out a porthole and saw nothing but water, it was impossible not to demand an explanation.
    â€œYou are going to put us on land, right?” I asked.
    Carson led us to the lower deck, where a small gangplank had been lowered into the ocean. Beside it was a motorboat being driven by a sailor with a deep island-tan set off by his summer whites. “The coral reefs won’t let us get close to land. Shore patrol’s going to take you to the island.”
    â€œAnd that’s where exactly?” asked Violet.
    He pointed toward the other side of the Queen of the Ocean . “Don’t worry—the ship’s blocking the view. You’re not but a ten minute ride from your new home.”
    One by one, he helped us into the boat. Our luggage soon followed, landing with a boom as each bag was dropped overboard.
    â€œThere goes my grandmother’s antique punch bowl,” said Violet.
    As the boat pulled away, we leaned over the edge and took in blue water that was so clean and clear I had no doubt we could see the bottom of the ocean if we looked hard enough. Fingers of coral reef danced beneath the surface, beckoning us to lean a little closer. Colorful fish, traveling so fast their movements seemed choreographed, disappeared beneath the white waves kicked up by the boat.
    â€œAre there sharks?” asked Violet.
    â€œYou betcha,” said our suntanned escort. “I think we have them to thank for half the Jap casualties. They’ve developed a taste for the slant-eyes.”
    Within seconds the island came into view, a lush green paradise that looked much more inhabited than I would’ve thought. For some reason I assumed the South Pacific had been untouched by civilization until the war broke out.
    A pulse of electricity passed through me. I wasn’t one for intuition, but in that moment I was positive Jack had been here. I knew it as sure as I knew my own name.
    â€œThis is it,” said Jayne.
    â€œThis is it,” I repeated.
    Buildings on stilts faced the water, their roofs made of thatched grasses, their windows empty eyes observing our arrival. As we approached increasingly shallow water, crocodiles disguised as driftwood eyed us suspiciously.
    â€œThis is Blue Beach,’ said our escort. I tried to figure out why it was given that name, but there was no obvious reason for it. The sand was stark white and peppered with seashells.
    We reached the shore, and another man, this time in shorts with a brilliant tattoo of a Polynesian dancer on his right bicep, appearedto help us out of the boat and onto the utilitarian dock that seemed out of place in this jungle paradise. The air was moist and heavy, so full of rich and foreign scents that I felt as if my head was going to explode from too much stimulation. It was early afternoon, and the sun was still at its highest point, baking us in its oppressive heat. A third man greeted us with a wide smile, his eyes hidden behind the reflective lenses of his cheaters. His skin was tan, his shoulders broad, his legs bare beneath the shorts he’d cannibalized from his khaki pants, showing off an angry scar that covered most of one knee. Instead of dog tags, a camera hung around his neck.
    He lifted the viewfinder to his eye and stared at us through the lens. Before we could react, he fired the camera once, capturing our disheveled