I had seen the scars before, but never so fresh. They had been flat in the photographs and the mugshots. They had not been captured by the great video with which he had begun the movement and interested me. In person, I could almost feel the heat radiating from the reddened, holed flesh; I could almost smell the sulfuric twang of the volcanic ash that, like the scars, was now cold and lifeless. Once, they burned. Once, it burned. Once, he burned. But something about him, a spark in his eyes, told me that his fire was still alight. I didn’t know, then, that his escape from prison would follow the conclusion of our sessions.

I reached out to shake his hand. The right hand, as was the tradition. His charred flesh found my grip, colder than skin should have been and textured with a likeness to a fatty champagne ham. From his handcuffs, his left hand hung awkwardly.

As I withdrew, his hands clasped and pulled closer to himself until the bar in the center of the table caught his restraints and he could pull no further.

“Dr. MacClain,” I greeted with a nod, and I folded into the seat across from him. He returned the nod, leaning forward to push up and straighten his small, round spectacles. “Describe the island for me.”

“At the beginning?” Dr. MacClain asked, straightening in his chair as smoothly as a stretch. He smirked, his unharmed left eye squinting to match the permanent swell of his sunken right. “Or the end?”

“I want to know everything.”

“Did you find my journals?”

“Yes.” It should have felt wrong to read them, but it was my job to be nosy, to investigate. It’s what I live for, though somehow, it also kills me slowly. “But I need to know what happened next. The journals stop on the day you go to the island.”

Dr. MacClain dipped his head. "The island. What happened on the island? I lost a leg and grew a spine.”

I pulled my trusty old recording device out of my pocket and slid it onto the table. Into the open slot, I inserted a fresh tape and pressed record. It clicked and whirred with the familiar hum of a new story to chase, a new adventure to be had.

“Do I have your consent to use this recording, your journals, and all other materials at my disposal to tell your story accurately, fairly, and from your perspective?”

“Yes, Mr. Chadwick. I, Tobias MacClain, give you my consent to use this dialogue, along with any of my personal journals and belongings, to document my story accurately and fairly.”

I lean forward with my elbows splayed on the table and give him a nod, and an inviting gesture.

“When you’re ready."