“Attention passengers, we will be landing in five minutes,” the pilot’s voice sounds over the speakers. “Please put on your seat belts to prepare for landing.”

I buckle my seatbelt and peer out the small window of the plane. The Pacific Ocean stretches as far as the eye can see, and, in the center of the huge body of water, two small islands rest, emerging from the rolling waves.

“There they are,” I whisper to myself. “The mysterious islands of the Pacific.”

The plane lowers to the water, skimming the reflective surface. Like a boat, the plane rides the waves to the shore of one of the islands.

“Please exit in an orderly fashion,” the flight attendants say. “Thank you for flying Pacific Airlines.”

I step off the final stair and onto the sand. A lush forest of beautiful trees, bushes, and flowers grows a few paces ahead of me. I wander off from the rest of the group and walk along the ocean. I slip off my shoes and let the sand sink between my toes. I collect shells and rocks along the shore. I find a large shell and pick it up. Something slithers out from underneath it.

“Eeww,” I jump back and stare at the strand of brown hair that rests on the sand.

“Is there a problem, Ms. Monroe?” one of the tour guides ask. They must have followed me here. “What’s this? A strand of hair? Mr. Reynolds, come here and take a look at this.”

Mr. Reynolds pulls out a plastic bag and a pair of tweezers from his pocket. He picks up the strand of hair with the tweezers and puts it in the plastic bag. “I will run the tests. We may have found what we’re looking for.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“What’s what?” Mr. Reynolds replies.

“What you’re looking for.”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

Shifting their attention from me and back onto the strand of hair, Mr. Reynolds and the tour guide walk off in the other direction back towards the plane. I watch as they walk past the plane and keep going into the distance. Where are they going? I think to myself. Why are they so obsessed with that strand of hair? It’s gross.
I decide to follow them. I race towards them, keeping a respectable distance, so they don’t see me. A trailer sits alone in the sand near the forest. I run up to it and look in the window. Mr. Reynolds and the tour guide stand near a lab table, hovering over a microscope. I go over to another window that is slightly open, so I can hear their conversation.
“Well, is it what we think it is?” the tour guide asks.
“Yep, it sure is,” Mr. Reynolds answers.
“Really? So, she must have landed on these islands or crashed in the Pacific.”
“I believe so. It seems we have uncovered the mystery of the disappearance of Amelia Earhart.”