Ilya considered the question for a moment, then answered, “We wait.”
“For what?”
“For the writer to tell us what happens next.”
Ilya nodded toward the sheet of paper she’d set on the coffee table. Alistair leaned in to see that it was a manuscript page about her following the fox through the culvert and hiding from the caretaker. It stopped at the moment that Ilya opened the door for her with a blanket and a sheet of paper in her hand.
“We’re supposed to sit here until the writer tells us what the island wants us to do next?”
“Until the writer tells us what we will do next.”
“Ilya? How long have you been waiting for this book to be finished?”
“As long as I can remember.”
“Why?”
“There’s something I forgot. Something very important that I lost. If I can just hold on . . . a little
