On the shores of the emerald-green lagoon, the fishermen of Motu-Rua whispered of a strange thing: an island that moved. Old Man Ika swore he had seen it at dawn—a hump of sand and swaying palms drifting

The toothpaste tube wriggled in his grip, oozing more than foam: A child’s baby tooth (labeled "Control Group A") A sliver of silver filling that matched his own And finally, a film negative