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Ann. There’s a limit. Denham’s a great guy, but he doesn’t think of safety when there’s a picture at stake. He doesn’t care what happens, who gets hurt, as long as he gets the shot he’s after. No, don’t interrupt me. I know what you’re going to say—that he’d never ask us to do what he wouldn’t do, and that’s true, and that’s okay as far as men are concerned. But with you it’s different.”
    Ann pulled away from him and turned to contemplate the low cloud on the distant horizon. “Well, you don’t have to worry yet. And maybe there isn’t any island, as you said.”
    â€œMaybe not, but—” Driscoll broke off, pounded his fist on the rail of the crow’s nest. “Still, I—this is hard for me to—Ann, look at me, all right?”
    Ann felt something in her shrink from the request. Instead of looking, she turned partly away from Jack, gazing down at the sea far below. “Jack, I—”
    She felt his hand on her arm. “Look at me, Ann. You know why I’m worried. I love you.”
    Ann felt herself blushing, knew that her face was glowing pink. She bit her lip and could not speak for a moment.
    Driscoll put his hands back on her shoulders and turned her around to face him. He pulled her into an embrace. “Ann, that’s why I worry,” he said in a stifled voice. “I’m scared for you, and I’m scared of you, and we don’t have much time. I love you, Ann.”
    Ann felt tears stinging her eyes, but she lifted a smiling face to Driscoll, and when he leaned toward her, she returned his kiss. After a moment that seemed to go on forever, she forced herself to push away from him. “Oh, Jack.”
    â€œDon’t say anything,” Driscoll said. “Just—just remember what I said.” He cleared his throat and pointed to the west, where the sun had sunk down to the horizon. “There’s an albatross.”
    Ann felt a foolish smile on her face. “He’s so beautiful,” she whispered, but she hardly gave the magnificent wheeling bird a second glance. She leaned back against Jack, and he put his arms around her. “It’s all so beautiful,” she murmured, feeling warm and safe.
    The western sky was ablaze with pink, with indigo, with saffron, peach, and yellow as the sun sank with the swiftness of the tropics. Against the brilliant display, the albatross swung in great arcs, enormous wings outstretched.
    And to the south the low cloud had grown to a fog bank, gray to the east, lit with the splendor of the fading twilight on the west. “We’d better get back on deck before it’s dark,” Jack whispered into Ann’s ear.
    â€œYes,” she said. “Yes, Jack.”
    As they made the climb down, twilight flooded the world. Ahead of the ship, the rolling bank of fog grew, its drifting tendrils shadowed, purple, mysterious. The Wanderer never deviated from its course. The prow rose and fell with the waves, rose and fell, but aimed constantly at that distant fog, at whatever lurked at the heart of it.

6
    NEAR SKULL ISLAND
MARCH 12, 1933
    All through the night, the fog thickened. Carl Denham stood, peering into the mist as though trying to dissipate it through sheer will. Doubt assailed him. He had dragged Captain Englehorn and his crew halfway around the world, all based on the Norwegian skipper’s incredible map. Had it all been a hope and a prayer, nothing more than a vainglorious attempt to do the impossible? It would have been easy to give in to such misgivings as he stood for hours on end through the muggy night. He shook off his worries and stared into the darkness ahead.
    â€œDon’t lose your confidence now. Not when you’ve come this far,” he encouraged himself.
    The ship had slowed and was making little more than steerageway. When morning came, she was still creeping through a yellow-white