72
Thirty-four days later.
This private island a few miles off Malaysia is a rich man’s playground. The beaches are fine sand that gently polishes the calluses from your feet as you walk. It’s guarded seasonally by clouds of really nasty jellyfish, with schools of temperamental barracuda in the off season. The days are sunny and warm, with enough salt breeze to keep us comfortable even when the heat could crush anyone.
The main building perches atop a well-worn extinct volcano, a hard nub of rock a couple hundred feet above the water. There’s a whole mess of elevators ranging from Industrial Behemoth to Victorian Luxury, plus a glass-walled cable car that goes straight down to the swimming beach. The last tsunami that came through here didn’t even make it halfway up. The house is light
