A Circular Finish

Gaius and David pass Katherine's tree.

Under the tree, her book lies open.

I trust nothing has happened, says Gaius.

So do I, says David. 

He takes out his whistle, and blows.

Katherine emerges from the undergrowth, hitching up her long johns.

Before you say anything, says Katherine, I did not pee.

Gaius nods, as though this is quite natural.

David wonders what she had thought they might say.

I remembered that we're supposed to use the quarantine room, says Katherine. Did you wonder what had happened? 

We trusted nothing had happened, says Gaius. 

But you blew a whistle, says Katherine.

To be on the safe side, says David.

Any excuse, says Gaius.

Are you blaming me for silencing the wetapunga? asks David.

Did you find one? asks Katherine.

Yes, says Gaius. And I made a short video.

Show it to me on the way back to the bunkhouse, says Katherine. I'm in rather a hurry.

They start walking, while Gaius calls the video up on his phone.

Katherine has left her book behind, in her haste, and her interest in seeing the wetapunga.

The hihi flutters down.

Tzit-tzit.

It rips the top page out, with its thin curved beak, and returns to its nest, inside the knothole. 

Chapter Three. How To Take Your Time. 

To lose a page devoted to a chapter heading is not the greatest loss.

Especially as the chapter heading reappears at the top of each page,

But what about the text overleaf? On page 32. And that text is essential, showing in snail trails and spiral forms the beginning of Proust's longest sentence, which meanders to a circular finish in the middle of page 33.

Katherine does not deserve this.

She's a woman who held in her pee for the good of the island.