"I donnae need you."

"…"

"D'ja hear? I donnae need ya."

"Yea?"

"…Yes."

"You got nowhere to go. No money. No family. No one what cares for you but me."

"That's not true. I-I still have family."

"Yea? How long's it been? Years, wee barra. Yonks an' yonks. They think you're gone."

"…"

"You cannae leave. You cannae survive on yer own. Cannae care for yourself."

"I can."

"You cannae. And you donnae wannae."

"I-I do."

"That why you haven't left yet?"

"No. You have what's mine."

"I'm keeping it safe. Keeping you safe."

"You're keeping me here—"

"Donnae be dramatic."

"I'm—you laughin'?"

"Yer so funny when you get like this—I cannae help it!"

"…What?"

"…"

"Abby!"

"I'm sorry. It's too funny when you get all worked up over yer wee paranoia."

"Paranoia?! I'm—I'm not some loon!"

"'Course yer not."

"I'm not!"

The horizon burned in the sunset, water and sky reflecting reds and oranges where the sun disappeared. Neither Stan nor Ford initially saw it when Sean first spotted their destination, but their skepticism dissipated when the shore peered over the horizon. The twins' excitement grew exponentially as the Stan o' War II drew nearer: as the sand came into view, as the trees and foliage became distinct, as the salty scent of the sea mingled with floral aromas, when the very feeling of weirdness descended upon them—all bathed in progressively waning light. They were practically giddy by the time they reached the island.

Stan was the first to disembark, again ecstatic to have dry land beneath his feet. Ford came next, hot on his brother's heels, throwing his usual trepidations to the wind. By the time Sean finished ensuring that the boat wouldn't float away in their absence and joined them, the Pines had regained much of their composure.

"This what you were lookin' fer?" he asked, standing a short distance away from them. For the first time since they left, he had his back to the sea.

"I hope so," Ford answered. His journal remained stowed away in his coat pocket as he surveyed their surroundings. The beach didn't stretch far inland; heavy brush started only a few yards from the waves. Strangely, the foliage was dense enough to prevent him from seeing much further.

Stan kicked at the black sand beneath his feet. "Can't imagine what else we might be looking for." He shot an amused grin at his brother. "It's an island. It's weird. What else would it be?"

"Not gonnae find much here," Sean said. "Most all the creatures are more inland."

"Are there many dangerous creatures here? Is it unsafe after dark?" Ford finally tore his eyes from the decidedly deciduous forest.

Sean shrugged. "Nae? I donnae think there's much what's gonna hunt ya here."

"Much?"

"Take yer fill of the beach fer now. Might be best to explore come morning."

Ford nodded. "Likely for the best."

For the remainder of the day's light, the Pines twins scoured the beach, taking in what details they could. Another page in Ford's journal filled with information, a totally unfiltered description of the island. When it became too dark, the group returned to the Stan o' War II, intending to sleep through the night; neither he nor his brother could rest much, both too thrilled with their new discovery.

Dawn came after Stan and Ford began their morning rituals. Stan, in fact, was on his third cup of coffee by the time the sun joined them, and Ford was on his fourth by the time Sean finally woke. He groggily readied breakfast and joined the twins at the table. Stan was the only one to greet him properly; Ford, engrossed in his work, only managed a slight salutary grunt.

"Hey, kid, you wouldn't happen to know the layout of the island, would you?" Stan peered over his paper at him. "Or if there's some sort of map or something?"

Sean prodded at his kippers with his fork. "Er…I dunnae…I may be able to help you find the sorta stuff you might wanna see. I told ya, I never really explored this place. Been yonks an' yonks anyhow…" He yawned. "Do what I can."

Stan finished his coffee. "That's better than nothing, I guess. Grab your jacket and meet me and Ford on the beach when you're ready."

"'Ford and me,'" his brother mindlessly corrected. "Grammar, Stanley."

Stan groaned. "Seriously, Poindexter?"

"Grammar is important—"

"Nah." Stan waved off his brother's explanation. "Let's get going." He grabbed for his coat, though he stopped at Sean's dismissive motion. "Huh?"

"It's too warm, don'tcha think?" Sean shed his oversized sweatshirt like a second skin, dropping it where it fell beside his chair. He was still drowning in his threadbare grey shirt. "Donnae have much need for a coat."

Stan made a nonplussed noise. "Guess so. Didn't really notice."

Ford stopped writing, finally lifting his gaze from his journal. "That can't be right. We're near the Arctic Circle and it's November. It's impossible that the weather could be so warm."

"Tell that to your thermometer." Stan tapped the glass thermometer on the wall. "It says it's 63, maybe 64 out."

"What? No." Shocked, Ford flew to the thermometer and checked the mercury. Just as his brother said—63.5. "How odd."

"Always balmy here." Sean dropped his fork, joining the twins in the cabin's doorway. "And sunny."

Stan snorted a laugh. "Could do with some sunshine. C'mon, Sixer, let's get going."

When once again the three stood on the black sand beach, Stan bounced on his toes. A real-life undiscovered island. He and Ford had their encounters on the high seas, but this—documenting uncharted lands, discovering new creatures, likely finding some sort of treasure—this was exactly what he'd imagined when they were kids. Maybe not so old, but he could forgive that. The day smelled of adventure and he couldn't wait any longer.

"Easy, Stanley, the island isn't going anywhere." Ford snickered at his own joke, flinching when his brother punched him in the arm. "What should we hunt first? I'm very interested in shellycoat, but it might not be the most auspicious start to our exploration. Perhaps something less likely to mislead us, like a fairy or a gnome or something."

Stan rolled his eyes. "We have gnomes at home, and I'm pretty sure you're not going to like them any better out here. I'm sure I won't."

"Fair enough."

"There's a whole river fullah creatures and such, northaways here." Sean gestured in the appropriate direction. "Mind you donnae follow the will o' wisps or screams."

"Screams?" Ford repeated, both curious and concerned. "What screams?"

"Bit of this and that." Sean motioned for the twins to follow him as he continued. "There's some banshees what live there. Shellycoat, too, they get active with visitors. Some of the sprites'll holler fer attention. Then there's the kelpie—well, they donnae scream per se, but they make that fockin' noise—such a noise, fer a fockin' horse, donnae make sense. There's the selkies, too, but I dunnae that they'll be making much of a bark at this hour. And they're more by the sea, anyhow. Salt water creatures and such…"

Somehow able to keep up with every bit of Sean's rambling and writing all of it down, Ford hardly paid attention as the group traipsed through the forest. The task fell to Stan to keep his brother from tripping over stray roots or running into thick brush, though he did let a branch smack him in the back of the head once for his own amusement. Colorful lights flickered amidst the leaves, sometimes accompanied by laughter ("fockin' pixies, always having a giggle, donnae pay them mind"); glimpses of darker creatures flitted about their peripherals ("It's like a Hide-Behind, Stanley!"). Sean's commentary, contrary to his near silence on the Stan o' War II, never ceased. He had something to say about every creature in the strangely springtime forest, something personal, oftentimes.

Odd, for someone who had never ventured beyond the shore. Stan kept the comment to himself, at least for the moment.

The sun lingered high overhead by the time the three reached the river. Ford was beside himself with giddiness, his pen pausing only long enough for him to properly align his thoughts with the new scene before him.

Calm water trickled downstream, bubbling complacently. Various creatures milled about, their bodies glistening in the midday sun, totally unperturbed by their new observers. Ford readily identified a few common fish and perching bird species; he nearly squealed in delight on recognizing a kelpie pattering beneath the water's surface. The mythical ecosystem visible in the river fascinated him.

"Do they live amongst themselves peaceably?" Ford asked as he began doodling.

"You can call it that," Sean murmured. His eyes casually surveyed the river. "Most serpents eat fish and such. Kelpies are carnivorous, though. Like to feed on land creatures, mostly—some kinda show of dominance or summat. Grindylow tend to eat fish, but will go fer anything they can get their hands on. Bastard shellycoat donnae eat flesh—just likes killing stupid things, I guess."

Stan saw his brother note "Shellycoats like to kill stupid things" in his journal. He fought the urge to laugh.

"Sorta like a regular ecosystem, really." Sean set himself on the riverbank in a patch of sun. "You'll be taking some time for doodling in yer journal, there, then?"

Ford didn't answer; he'd become completely fixated on his work. Words and images materialized on the paper, hardly able to keep up with his racing thoughts. He found a reasonably comfortable patch of grass near the water's edge, collapsed onto it, and fell into silent productivity.

"He's not going to get eaten by anything, sitting there, right?" Stan sat beside Sean, watching Ford carefully.

"Nah." Sean tucked his knees up to his chest, resting his chin atop them. "Shellycoats are nocturnal, and I donnae think Stanford'll be moving enough to catch the attention of the grindylow. Kelpie wonnae mind him less he minds them."

"Huh." Stan laid back into the grass. Overhead, the clouds drifted by lazily. He may as settle; Ford would keep them there for hours if they let him.