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I slowly place my dishes into the sink. Then I square my shoulders and, with no other options, follow him out the door.
CHAPTER 8
YOUR EMPLOYEE FILE IS SHIT.” Vaughn leads me out of the dining hall to a path that follows the water’s edge toward the dock. Seabirds wheel overhead, a cacophony of noises. We’re back in full sun, which has me sweating almost immediately, but the views of rippling blue water, waving palms, and swooping birds are nearly intoxicating. More things are scuttling along the path and rustling in the bordering grass, but I’m too utopia-drunk to care.
“Umm, it is?” I have to work to keep up. Everyone around here walks so fast.
Ahead of us is the dock, which has three boats, one larger enclosed fishing vessel and two very simple plank-seating motorboats. Last time I was on a boat, it was to use sonar to look for a missing woman’s car at the bottom of a lake. Sadly, my theory proved to be correct.
“Where’s your physical?” Vaughn turns abruptly, catching me off guard. His blue eyes are piercing. “For that matter, where’s your passport?”
“A passport? Aren’t we still in the US?”
He’s already moving again. I notice more buildings ahead. A large one on the right with a long covered patio. We blow right by it, even though I do my best to peer through the screened windows. Empty except for some basic outdoor furniture and a ping-pong table. Rec center maybe?
We pass the dock, which is festooned with brightly painted old buoys atop each wooden post. Some have been painted with basic abstract designs, others to resemble animals. I also notice more flip-flop mosaics decorating the side of a giant shed built on the edge of the water, not to mention a tree stump that has been carved into some kind of bird. Apparently limited internet access is good for boosting creativity.
Vaughn leaves the path and cuts a direct line through low-cropped grass, even smaller shapes now scurrying from beneath our feet. We arrive at a dark-green building, about the right size for an office.
We enter, and I’m immediately struck by a wall of frigid air.
“You get air-conditioning?” I can’t quite keep the outrage from my voice.
“The computer and comm system get air-conditioning. I’m just fortunate enough to share a room with them. Sit.” Vaughn points to yet another cheap plastic chair; they must buy the damn things in bulk. I’m a little surprised by the amount of plastic present on an eco-minded development site; then again, the cheap outdoor furnishings are rugged enough to withstand the elements while light enough for easy transport. There’s something to be said for that.
Now Vaughn plants himself in the first real chair I’ve seen around here, a plush executive business model, then taps the manila folder sitting atop his desk. “Where’s your medical report? Annual physical? Signed form from your doctor? Anything?”
“I don’t have one?” I venture.
“Why?” His tone is demanding. It makes me shiver a little, though that might also be the air-conditioning.
“I didn’t know it was required. Seriously, you have to have a note from your doctor to work here?”
“We’re in the middle of the damn ocean where an emergency medical evac can take up to three days, and that’s if the Coast Guard is available out of Honolulu. So, yeah, we require yearly physicals and a signed note from a doctor confirming you’re physically fit.”
“I didn’t know—”
“The employment issue should’ve told you.”
“I might have misread the email—”
“They should’ve demanded to see a signed clean medical report when you checked in.”
“It all happened very fast. My plane arrived in Honolulu just in time to catch the charter.” I’m blabbering, trying to fabricate a plausible excuse out of thin air. “I barely had time to sign the forms they did have, and then I had to run out the door. They said you were short-staffed, in need of an immediate placement? Maybe that’s why they let it go.” I continue chattering. “But I’m in good health, if that helps. Right as rain.”
“Prescription meds?”
“I’m not on any. Are you allowed to ask that question?”
“Yes, I can, and yes, I will. As the project manager on record, I’m in charge of every single person’s health and wellness on this atoll. Think of me as your father, doctor, and confessor. Because around here, our safety depends on one another. Which means we don’t screw around and we don’t lie.”
He no longer sounds stern or ominous, just matter-of-fact. It makes for a much more powerful statement.
“I’m in good health,” I repeat levelly. “And I’m sorry about the missing forms. I honestly didn’t know.”
Though in hindsight, I bet hyperefficient Twanow did. Meaning she purposefully kept that detail from me. Because even she couldn’t pull off a signed note from a doctor in such a rushed time frame? And keeping with her theme of just be yourself, she wanted me to be able to honestly say I had no idea?
Clearly, the lawyer manipulated me. Yet another reason I prefer to pick my cases myself and work them alone.
