Mara stood on the dock when the fishing boat came in with one man aboard instead of four. The survivor couldn't walk straight. His hands shook when he pointed back toward the water. He kept saying the islands moved. He kept saying something out there didn't want to be found. She helped him to the dock bench. His clothes were stiff with salt. A metal case hung from a strap around his neck, dented on one side like something had crushed it. When she opened it, a photograph slid out. The image showed a shoreline she'd never seen on any chart. Rock formations rose like columns from shallow water. The composition was deliberate, careful. Someone had been documenting. The man grabbed her wrist. His eyes were red from sun and seawater. He said they'd tried to land on the western cluster. He said the currents reversed while they anchored. He said the rocks appeared where his GPS showed open water. She asked if he still had his navigation logs. He laughed until he started coughing. Mara looked at the photograph again. Past the rocks, she could see the edge of dense forest. A shipping container lay half-buried in the sand behind him, its steel walls buckled inward. She recognized the formation from her own incomplete charts, the ones she'd drawn a year ago before turning back. This survivor had gotten farther than she had. And something in the archipelago had sent him back broken, with proof that the islands were more than dangerous. They were wrong.