Day ten on the island. I’m going through suitcases on the beach, sorting stuff into piles. Clothing. Toiletries. Books.
It occurs to me that I could start a small island lending library with all the paperbacks we’ve found. Mostly Harry Potter, Tom Clancy stuff, two copies of Memoirs of a Geisha, romance novels, one Life of Pi, Bridget Jone’s Diary. It seems that people tend not to read the classics when they fly. Who can blame them? I’m glad I wasn’t reading Russian literature when the plane started to break apart, or I would have been too paralyzed by depression to reach out for my oxygen mask.