The island was not on any map. It was a speck of green in the vast blue of the Southern Ocean, hidden by perpetual mist and strong currents that discouraged navigation. To Ezra, it looked like a mistake. A place the world had forgotten. Which made it perfect.
He woke before the sun. His internal clock was set to danger, not light. He sat up on the beach where he had slept, his back against the trunk of a palm tree. The rifle lay across his lap. The wood was damp with dew. He wiped it with a cloth. Routine. Ritual. Survival.
The survivors were scattered along the shoreline. Some slept in the rafts they had ridden here. Others had dragged themselves into the tree line, seeking shelter from the wind. They were exhausted. The journey from the ice shelf had taken three days of constant paddli
