Ode to a Fish Sandwich by Rebecca M. Hale

slower than needed to avoid the numerous bumps and potholes.
    Finally, he stopped the truck altogether, pulling over to the side of the road at the edge of the cane field near the resort’s entrance.
    Once more, he leaned out his open window, but this time the action had nothing to do with the stench inside the cab. A gust of wind billowed up from the sea, causing a ghostly ripple through the cane.
    Burt climbed out of the truck, leaving the driver’s side door propped open. He walked a short distance down the road to a narrow opening in the reeds, the beginning of a trail that wound up the volcano’s steep sides.
    It was a hike that his wife had never expressed any interest in exploring—until the day of her disappearance.
    Her body was never recovered. After several weeks, the authorities declared her legally dead, a rational conclusion based on the circumstances surrounding her extended absence.
    But Burt had been unable to reconcile this mental logic with the emotions that swelled in his heart.
    Somehow, he felt certain that she lay waiting, somewhere on that mountain, for him to find her.
    He stood in the place where she’d last been seen and listened as the silence whispered her name.
    Delilah .
    Over a decade’s worth of healing had done little to soothe the pain. The news was just as jarring today as it had been when he first received it.
    Even after all these years, he still had no idea what had inspired her to climb that trail—and no clue as to who or what had lured her to her death.

Chapter 13
The Lure of the Cane
    HIS STOMACH FULL with the day’s fish sandwich, Dr. Jones climbed into the canvas-topped bus for the afternoon ride back to the resort.
    Sliding into the last bench seat at the rear of the vehicle, he tucked his umbrella under his arm and leaned casually against the vinyl seat cushions.
    A few of the other passengers glanced over their shoulders at the curious-looking man who had joined them by the ferry dock, but he paid them no heed. Several days into his vacation, he was now comfortable with the routine. Despite his body-covering clothing, the copious amounts of sunscreen on his face—and the umbrella—the doctor’s obvious familiarity with everyone and everything on the island commanded an odd respect from the newcomers.
    But perhaps more important, the doctor had begun to really enjoy his time in the tropics.
    While remaining vigilant with his sun protection regimen, he had gradually transitioned to a state of extreme relaxation. His body exuded a healthy glow, the result of many restful nights’ sleep, plenty of exercise, and a good number of succulent fish sandwiches. He tugged on the brim of his floppy hat and gazed out at the passing scenery, a broad smile on his face.
    The bus wound around the south shore, its worn shocks squeaking as it navigated the bumpy road. To the right, the sea lapped softly against the boulders scattered across the sand. On the inland side, gauzy clouds circled the volcano, dressing the summit in a feathery boa of pink and purple hues.
    It was a beautiful day, the doctor thought with a blissful sigh. He had less than forty-eight hours left before his flight back to Utah, and he was beginning to dread his departure.
    He was going to miss this place.
    ~
    DR. JONES GAZED THROUGH the nearest bus window, picking out his favorite spots along the route. After nearly a week of daily walks, he was becoming well acquainted with the journey. With each passage, he noticed details he had previously missed.
    Even the cane field now opened up beneath his gaze, he mused as the bus turned away from the shoreline and began the last curving stretch to the resort’s front gates.
    Instead of an intimidating maze of uniform greenery, he could identify distinctive markers: a mangrove whose trunk had grown into a spiraled contortion, a boulder peeking out from a mass of ferns, and many other odd-shaped spaces and gaps between the reeds.
    The revelations did little to temper the