{"product_id":"eradication-isbn-9780385551915","title":"Eradication","description":"\u003cb\u003eA blackly comic literary gem in which a broken man confronts a broken world on an uninhabited Pacific island, where a conservation assignment becomes a moral reckoning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An instant classic.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Pos\u003c\/i\u003et • “Excellent ” —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times \u003c\/i\u003e• “Urgent and lyrical.” —NPR\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Beautifully weird, eerie, unexpected — a story for our times.”—Kevin Barry, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Heart in Winter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e Reeling from tragedy, former jazz musician–turned–schoolteacher Adi answers a job listing offering a chance to save the world. The assignment: spend five weeks alone on the tiny Pacific island of Santa Flora, restoring an ecological balance gone dangerously awry by an invasive population of goats. Though he has no experience in wildlife management, he is hired anyway. Armed with little more than survival gear and uneasy resolve, he sets out to remove what doesn’t belong.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut the mission is not what it seems. The threats to the once-Edenic island aren’t what his employers claim. Complicating things further, he discovers he’s not alone on the island. Fearful for his own life, and for the fate of the island's, Adi spends his sun-drenched days rooting out the true threat to Santa Flora and by extension, to the world it occupies. As isolation deepens and doubt takes hold, he finds the boundaries between duty and redemption, preservation and harm, growing harder to define.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA desert-island meditation on love, grief, and solitude, as well as a jolt to your emotional core, \u003ci\u003eEradication\u003c\/i\u003e is an unforgettable reading experience and a bold work of imagination. With this fourth novel, Jonathan Miles, “a fluid, confident, and profoundly talented writer” (Dave Eggers), delivers his most compelling work yet.“Excellent . . . Threaded throughout the novel — which Miles helpfully terms a ‘fable’ — is a patient, skillful reveal . . . a fable within the fable that sharpens and complicates these finely drawn moral dilemmas. . . . Miles considers the complicated ethics and logistics of eliminating an invasive species.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An instant classic . . . A brilliant melding of environmental mourning and personal grief . . . The moment I finished, I was reminded of Emily Dickinson’s description of true poetry: ‘I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off.’ . . . Miles has an uncanny ability to create a terrifying kind of momentum, a swelling of alarm that propels the story from bumbling comedy to moral terror. . . . [\u003ci\u003eEradication\u003c\/i\u003e is] basically, \u003ci\u003eHamlet \u003c\/i\u003ebut with goats.”\u003cbr\u003e—Ron Charles, \u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Urgent and lyrical . . . I closed [\u003ci\u003eEradication\u003c\/i\u003e] and felt stirrings of \u003ci\u003eLord Of The Flies\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Old Man And The Sea\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e—Scott Simon, NPR\u003ci\u003e Weekend Editon\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Like a great improvised jazz solo, Miles’ tale is both freewheeling and tightly contained. Complex, funny and sad, it is full of big ideas about planet, place and both social and ecological hierarchy. Just brilliant.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eMarie Claire UK\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Gripping . . . \u003ci\u003eEradication: A Fable\u003c\/i\u003e is [Miles’] best yet. . . . Only Miles could unspool this tale—one of love, grief, solitude, and a burning moral question.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eGarden \u0026amp; Gun\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A slim novel [that] makes admirable use of that brevity to deliver a powerful and memorable reading experience.”\u003cbr\u003e—Bookreporter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e[Readers] can . . . be grateful for what [Miles has] delivered: a sharp, funny novel of ideas that bristles with rage at what humanity can wreak on the world.”\u003cbr\u003e—BookBrowse\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Claire Keegan, George Orwell, James Baldwin, Sigrid Nunez, and F. Scott Fitzgerald have all written breathtakingly brilliant short novels. Add to that list Jonathan Miles. . . . [\u003ci\u003eEradication\u003c\/i\u003e is] among the most brilliant, beautiful short novels ever.” \u003cbr\u003e—Chris Bohjalian, author of \u003ci\u003eMidwives\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Jackal’s Mistress\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In \u003ci\u003eEradication\u003c\/i\u003e, Jonathan Miles tackles the brutal paradoxes of ecological conservation with both unflinching clarity and comedic flair. When saving an imperilled Eden means eliminating [sacrificing?] one species — whose only crime is to 'refuse to stop living' — to protect dozens more, there are no easy answers. A deft, unsettling exploration of what it means to play God.”\u003cbr\u003e—Maria Reva, author of \u003ci\u003eEndling\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Beautifully weird, eerie, unexpected — a story for our times, and all powered by the writer’s tremendous narrative imagination.”\u003cbr\u003e—Kevin Barry, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Heart in Winter \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e Night Boat to Tangier\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A work of genius. From the beginning Adi is an endearing castaway of sorts, marooned from his former life, well-employed but hopelessly ill-suited to the grim job at hand. But strangely the best possible witness to his own (our own) role in the natural and unnatural order, whatever that may be. What struck me is the way Miles can pivot seamlessly, symphonically, from a fist-gnawing comedy of errors to a heartbreaking requiem for a habitat, a world, a near-extinct Reed Warbler, a son, resolving into a shocking and defiant denouement. \u003ci\u003eEradication\u003c\/i\u003e is a beautiful and devastating novel.”\u003cbr\u003e—Luke Kennard, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Transition\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[\u003ci\u003eEradication\u003c\/i\u003e] blew me out of my socks. . . . Short and powerful . . . The second I finished it, I immediately reread it.”\u003cbr\u003e—Susan Casey, author of \u003ci\u003eVoices in the Ocean\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Miles’ observational skills are on fine display—the offbeat premise is fully convincing. . . . An allegory about contempt for immigrants, our propensity for violence, our relationship to the environment (and the harm we bring upon it), our need for connection, and more . . . A stark, propulsive, and timely man-versus-nature tale.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Incisive . . . An excellent storyteller, Miles leavens the grim material with moments of dark comedy and shepherds the plot to a series of poignant revelations. . . . This one sneaks up on the reader.”\u003cbr\u003e–\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Provocative . . . Miles’ captivating and entertaining novel poses awkward and thought-provoking questions about how to address the climate crisis.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Booklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] clever, innovative tale . . . Miles contrasts lush descriptions of the island setting with snippets of bleakly casual dialogue, channeling both realism and absurdity. . . . [\u003ci\u003eEradication\u003c\/i\u003e] can be savored in just one or two sittings.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBookPage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Miles's taut, powerful fable pits an everyman against seemingly insurmountable environmental and personal problems.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/i\u003eJONATHAN MILES is the author of the novels \u003ci\u003eDear American Airlines\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eWant Not\u003c\/i\u003e, both\u003ci\u003e New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Notable books, and the novel \u003ci\u003eAnatomy of a Miracle.\u003c\/i\u003e His journalism, essays, and criticism have appeared in a wide variety of publications, including \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e, where he served as a columnist. In 2024 he toured as a multi-instrumentalist in the band of the Grammy-winning artist Jon Batiste. He currently serves as Writer-in-Residence at the Solebury School in New Hope, Pennsylvania.The first sailor was beefy and tall and already sweating before the sun was risen. The second sailor was missing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eHe’ll be along\u003c\/i\u003e, the first sailor told Adi. With a flashlight jammed between his teeth he was filling out clipboarded forms and humming what sounded like a melody braked to quarter-speed, groany and dirgelike and, for Adi, unsettling in the predawn dark. The boat, a thirty-foot center console with two giant outboard motors, kept thunking the dock where Adi stood as the sailor went rummaging about the deck, opening and closing storage hatches to dash items from his checklist. \u003ci\u003eHe’ll be along\u003c\/i\u003e, he repeated, though to whom it was unclear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter a while the sailor clapped his hands together and motioned to Adi’s gear on the dock, which Adi handed down: two fat duffels, a backpack, four cellophane-sealed boxes, a pair of heavy plastic crates, a satellite phone pack, and a long thin black case secured with padlocks. There was no mistaking the latter as anything but a rifle case, and the sailor’s hum shifted to a pitchy song of vigilance as it got passed over the water. He parked it with the rest of the gear at the boat’s stern and then stood for several awkward moments shining his flashlight up at Adi.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eYou’re not a scientist.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eNo\u003c\/i\u003e. Adi squinted, his fingers splayed against the flashlight beam. \u003ci\u003eI’m not.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt this the sailor lowered his light, frowning. But soon he was nodding at Adi and grinning. \u003ci\u003eThen you’re an assassin\u003c\/i\u003e, he said, pantomiming a rifle shot. Adi could see the sailor’s broad teeth shining in the dark. \u003ci\u003eA sharpshooter.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAdi shrugged.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eA killer\u003c\/i\u003e, the sailor went on, but this time so acidly that Adi found himself unable to muster any response, not even another shrug.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJust then a pair of headlights entered the harbor. Adi and the sailor watched a taxi thread its way to the dock gate, where a man dragged himself from the back seat and stood swaying, counting out bills for the driver. From the deck the first sailor snorted. \u003ci\u003eI told you he’d be along\u003c\/i\u003e, he said, but again it was unclear to whom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe second sailor came swerving down the dock toward the boat. The first sailor whistled low and confirmed what Adi was thinking. \u003ci\u003eHe’s shitfaced.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eYou’re shitfaced!\u003c\/i\u003e he shouted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe second sailor brushed by Adi and wobbled onto the deck. This was the mate, Adi deduced, making the first sailor the captain. Short and bald and snake-hip skinny, the mate was the physical opposite of the captain, as in silent-movie comedy duos. He had to steady himself against the pilothouse to tuck his shirt into his pants. Only half made it in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eYou’re straight from Angel’s, aren’t you? \u003c\/i\u003ethe captain said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe mate blew the air from his cheeks and then, sour-faced, placed a palm on his chest, as though he’d tried and failed to expel something.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe captain growled, \u003ci\u003eYou haven’t even been home.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe mate ignored him and set himself to work. He hoisted the national flag along with another flag bearing the naval insignia. He unfolded a seat near the stern and with sharp impatient gestures motioned for Adi to board. He freed the dock lines and coiled the ropes and hauled in the fenders while inside the small open pilothouse the captain fired the engines and hummed his drowsy song.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eHow long will it take us?\u003c\/i\u003e Adi asked him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eSanta Flora? Six hours. \u003c\/i\u003eMore humming. \u003ci\u003eMaybe longer. Some chop in the water today.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOver the rooftops of the town was rising a thin stripe of dawn. The captain piloted the boat out of the harbor into the slate-colored sea.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eYes, Santa Flora\u003c\/i\u003e! the captain shouted to the mate, who was leaning over the port-side gunwale, licking his lips. \u003ci\u003eA nice long cruise. We should have music and beer, like at Angel’s.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWe should\u003c\/i\u003e, said the mate, though his curdled expression disagreed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHalf an hour or more passed before anyone spoke again. The captain sipped coffee and hummed and, when the radio squawked, sometimes tilted his thick head toward it. Adi found himself watching the mate, who, pressing his palms to the gunwale, kept dipping his head toward the water. From his lips swung a long rope of drool flickering neon green in the navigation lights’ glow. Adi had presumed that sailors would be immune to seasickness, but then Adi had not been around sailors before. For that matter he’d never been on a boat before, not counting the paddleboats at the capital zoo and a sunset river cruise he’d once taken with his wife. So he didn’t know.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the captain spoke again, it was as though the previous conversation, about music and beer, had not ended—that it’d merely been paused without anyone’s thoughts drifting in the interim. \u003ci\u003eAnd some girls too\u003c\/i\u003e, he said. \u003ci\u003eWouldn’t that be nice?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eIt would\u003c\/i\u003e, groaned the mate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eCha cha\u003c\/i\u003e, said the captain, swishing his backside. \u003ci\u003eCha cha cha.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAhead Adi saw only bluish-gray water and grayish-blue sky, the water whitecapped, the sky star-flecked. Behind the boat, though, was brewing a sunrise unlike any he could remember seeing: gorgeous and streaky like some big-budget advertisement for divinity, the sky slashed with ribbons of orange and rose and peach and gold and the boat’s deck blushing pink in its reflection. In other company Adi might’ve pointed to it, voiced his awe. But the sailors had clearly seen it, and were as clearly unimpressed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOver the rim of his coffee cup the captain was grinning at the mate, whose head now drooped overboard. \u003ci\u003eWho were you with at Angel’s, huh?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWeakly, the mate waved him off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eI’ll bet Chita\u003c\/i\u003e, the captain said. \u003ci\u003eIt was Chita, wasn’t it?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe mate’s body heaved.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eIt’s always Chita with you.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInto the sea went a gush of his insides.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe captain laughed while the mate sputtered and gagged. \u003ci\u003ePoor Chita\u003c\/i\u003e, he said. He lit a thin cigar and shook out the match. \u003ci\u003eI am going to tell her you retch at just the mention of her name. I’m going to ask her if she thinks this means love.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAgain the mate waved him off, before another spout of vomit left him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWe should ask Mister Killer here\u003c\/i\u003e, the captain said, aiming his cigar at Adi. \u003ci\u003eShould love make you retch?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe word \u003ci\u003ekiller\u003c\/i\u003e piqued the mate. With watery eyes and a glazed chin he lifted his head to assess Adi, who knew he didn’t square with anyone’s image of a killer. He looked instead like what he had been until eleven months ago: a schoolteacher, an amateur jazz clarinetist, a husband, a father. The mate sat blinking at him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eI guess it depends on the love\u003c\/i\u003e, Adi finally answered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eYes! \u003c\/i\u003ethe captain shouted, as the mate went back to dangling his head overboard.\u003ci\u003e It depends on the love.\u003c\/i\u003e He nibbled his cigar and mulled this awhile, having mistaken Adi’s circumspection for profundity. Then with mock courtroom gravity he addressed the mate: \u003ci\u003eWill you define for Mister Killer the nature of your love for Chita?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs if on cue, the mate retched again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhat could he love about her?\u003c\/i\u003e The captain frowned, mimicking thought.\u003ci\u003e Maybe it’s her hair. Chita has very nice hair. \u003c\/i\u003eHe wiggled his fingers around his head and grinned at the mate, who did not grin back. \u003ci\u003eSilky silky.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe hummed awhile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eOr maybe, let’s see—maybe it’s that magnificent cyst on her shoulder?\u003c\/i\u003e He turned to Adi, cupping a hand as if holding an invisible grapefruit. \u003ci\u003eIt’s enormous. You half expect it to talk, like a pirate’s parrot.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe mate wiped his chin with his forearm, muttering.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eNo\u003c\/i\u003e, said the captain, and shook his head and sighed. \u003ci\u003eI suspect the true nature of his love for Chita is that Chita charges less than the other girls at Angel’s.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAdi flushed and turned away, pretending to study something on the horizon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eIt is a great romance\u003c\/i\u003e, the captain went on. \u003ci\u003eLike Romeo and Juliet, I think. But different. Isn’t that right, Bruno?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe mate, drooling into the sea, hoisted a middle finger.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt this the captain laughed, but gently now, almost affectionately, as though some sort of abiding private ritual had been concluded, a routine punishment meted. He suckled his thin cigar and hummed some more before turning back to Adi.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eAnd what about you? Is there a Mrs. Killer?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAdi lowered his eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eAh, well. \u003c\/i\u003eThe captain shrugged. \u003ci\u003eThis is good. Otherwise you’d be sad to be leaving her today. You’d be annoying us with all your boohooing.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe risen sun was burning off the last of the fleecy clouds and all the world was blue and getting bluer. The captain’s forecast for choppy seas had proven accurate, and the boat’s hull kept smacking the water instead of gliding through it. To keep from getting bounced overboard Adi stood gripping the pilothouse roof and pinning his foot soles to the deck, bending at the knees with each spumy slap, his jaw clenched to keep his teeth from knocking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen he saw the captain motioning, corkscrewing a finger toward the stern.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThree porpoises were chasing the boat, diving in and out of the frothy wake. They were sleek and silver and to Adi seemed magical as mermaids. Soon a fourth porpoise appeared, larger and higher-flying than the others, and for a jittery moment, as it came swiveling through the spindrift, Adi feared it might leap onto the deck. When it didn’t Adi whistled and wagged his head as though astonished by an athletic feat, by a gymnast sticking some implausible landing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut as the porpoises kept tailing the boat a hazier anxiety began unsettling him. Why were the porpoises doing this? Their expressions—glimpsed briefly through the spray—were impenetrable to him. Were they stalking the boat like wolves, to attack it? Or like carrier pigeons, to warn of something? Or were they mobbing it, like gulls, to drive it away?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looked to the captain, who must’ve sensed his bewilderment. \u003ci\u003eThey’re playing. Like street dogs chasing cars.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAdi nodded and resumed watching until the captain barked to the mate: \u003ci\u003eHide his gun, Bruno! Mister Killer wants to shoot them!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAdi spun toward the captain, whose rubbery grin was overspreading his face and whose eyebrows were jumping and dancing with a caustic strain of delight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThat’s not true\u003c\/i\u003e, Adi protested. \u003ci\u003eDon’t say that.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith his thumb and forefinger the captain mimed a pistol shot toward the stern. \u003ci\u003eKa-blam\u003c\/i\u003e. Then, with a crooked smile, he fanned his hands in a cavalier shrug.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eKillers kill\u003c\/i\u003e, he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe wounded glare Adi leveled at him seemed to take the captain by surprise. With popped eyes and an emphatic chop he motioned to himself and the helm. \u003ci\u003eLike sailors sail!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe squirmed and sputtered, until:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eAnd like mates\u003c\/i\u003e, hooking a thumb toward Bruno, . . . \u003ci\u003emate\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe blast of laughter that followed was as though two bombs detonated on the boat, one big, the other small. The captain yowled and stomped and with tears in his eyes staggered to Bruno and repeated what he’d said,\u003ci\u003e like mates mate\u003c\/i\u003e, the captain’s body jellied with glee and the hungover mate convulsing with high-pitched wheezes, the two of them punching and pawing each other until they collapsed into a lopsided embrace—a junction of dumb rapture that struck Adi as even more alien than whatever the dolphins were up to behind the boat. He glanced back to check on them. It seemed possible the dolphins were laughing too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnly the sight of Santa Flora on the horizon quelled the hysterics. As soon as Adi alerted them to the distant gray bulge the sailors wiped their eyes and smoothed their shirts and comported themselves like naval officers again. As the island came into sharper view, less a gray bulge now than a beige spearhead, an abrupt and orderly calm seized the boat. Even for himself, Adi couldn’t say whether this calm stemmed from wonder or fear or reverence or dread or merely from the visual cue of the day’s mission, like a factory whistle summoning lunching workers back to their stations. The captain snapped orders and the mate executed them. Adi turned to see what the porpoises were doing but the porpoises were gone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the maps Adi had studied, Santa Flora resembled a comma on an otherwise blank page, but from the boat, as they made their westerly approach, he couldn’t distinguish the comma’s head from its tail; to his eye it was all just a uniformly scarpy chunk of land heaved from the sea that, lacking soft slopes or beaches or verdure or really any colors besides khaki and ash and a sparse dingy olive, gave the impression of not wanting to be bothered, of a primordial indifference. From every approach its back seemed turned.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eOnce we get around the south cape we’ll be landing you at Eremos Cove\u003c\/i\u003e, the captain told him. \u003ci\u003eThere’s just two landing sites on the island. The other is Campo Langosta on the north end, but only at high tide, and Punta Araña can be dicey to get around. You might see fishing boats if you’re up there. They’re illegal. Shark finners from up north. Nasty bastards.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey followed the cliff-indented shoreline south until the comma’s tail petered into a curl of volcanic stacks, dozens and dozens of clustered rock formations like half-submerged ruins of ancient statuary. Then the captain hooked the boat back northward, humming his dreary song while Adi and the mate stood flanking him. Beneath the midday sun the island appeared blanched and shadowless, like an unfinished painting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eYou’ll see where we dropped you your water last week\u003c\/i\u003e, the captain told Adi. \u003ci\u003eHalf a pallet of it! Enough for you to make a bubble bath every night. \u003c\/i\u003eHe cocked a bushy eyebrow. \u003ci\u003eYour foundation must have deep pockets.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe captain slid the boat between a pair of contorted rock spires and into the cove called Eremos. The water here was instantly different—turquoise and stilly—as was the coastline, with a narrow orange beach and clumps of what looked like palm trees bunched in the shallows and scattered amid another species of spindly misshapen trees. Adi saw where the sailors had left the half pallet of bottled water on their earlier trip, stacked right beside a primitive hut that he’d been told about, and this abrupt combination of shade, shelter, and gently lapping water relaxed something inside him. The island remained far from welcoming but at least here it wasn’t scowling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe captain burbled the boat as close to the beach as he could get while the mate dropped the bow anchor. Then the mate leapt into the waist-high water and, carrying the stern anchor, towed the boat in closer to moor it in the sand. He waded back and clapped his hands twice. The captain passed the mate one of Adi’s duffels, which he hauled to the beach, and in this way, item by item, the sailors began moving Adi onto the island.","brand":"Doubleday","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233147695333,"sku":"NP9780385551915","price":25.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780385551915.jpg?v=1767726326","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/eradication-isbn-9780385551915","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}