Page 93 of The Last Man on Earth
“Ilha da Espera. It means the island of waiting. Which is ironic,” he says with a laugh.
That shit ain’t funny to me.
“What room is she in?”
Before he can answer, an older man in a crisp suit enters and announces he’s from the embassy.
“You American?”
“Yes,” he says with a smile. “Rick O’Donnell. Nice to meet you, Mr. Newcastle.”
“Yeah, what’s good?”
He sits and pulls out a tablet. “Mr. Newcastle, I’d like to debrief you while everything is fresh. Is that okay?”
“Fine.”
“Very good. From the beginning. Flight 297. Who were the other passengers.”
Fuck.
I go down the list, then answer every other question he asks me while he writes it in his notes app. He should have just recorded it. I tell him about the crash, the island, how we survived, what we ate. He asks detailed follow-up questions like weather conditions, how I built the shelter. Shit that I don’t see why it matters, but oh well.
“Does anybody know we’ve been found?” I finally ask.
“Given the sensitive nature of your celebrity, no,” he says. “No media, no press releases. We’re keeping this contained.” He checks the time on his tablet. “Your family will likely be notified in a few hours.”
“Yeah, keep the media out of this.”
“We know the stakes,” he assures me. “Once you’re out of quarantine, we’ll coordinate with your team to get you safely back to the states.”
A woman knocks on the door before stepping inside.
“Mr. Newcastle. I’m Dr. Souza. I’m a psychologist.”
“Oh, y'all think I’m crazy?”
Her and Rick share a laugh at that, but once again, I don’t find shit funny.
Rick excuses himself, and Dr. Souza takes his seat.
She looks smart. And sharp. Black suit, stilettos, tortoise shell glasses, bright red lipstick. Seems like she knows her business.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions to understand how you’re doing,” she says in accented English. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah. Go ahead.”
“Do you know today’s date?”
Now I laugh. “I ain’t got a clue. I don’t even know if Iwannaknow.”
“Would you like for me to tell you?”
I nod.
“November sixteenth.”
That’s insane. My wedding was supposed to be on Valentine’s Day. It’s been nine fucking months?
