I clambered ashore, eyes on the ground before me.

He may be naked, but I was a grown-up woman. He had nothing about him I hadn't seen yet.

And I would get out of my wet clothes, too.

Breathing deeply, trying to calm the blood that tried to rise into my cheeks, I peeled off my jeans. Not an easy task when you're standing barefoot on rocky ground and your pants drip with seawater.

I finally succeeded without falling over and hung them over a rock. My blouse joined them moments later.

I considered taking off my bra and panties, too. They were cold and wet against my skin. He wasn't looking at me anyway.

I gave him a furtive glance.

Still facing the sea as he sat there, stony-faced, sharp jawline, his elbows rested on his thighs, his hands clenched into fists—a predator, coiled and ready to jump.

How would it feel to touch that man and to be touched by him?

Stop it.

I'd leave my underwear on.

As I passed behind him to get a rocky perch of my own, my gaze fell onto his back.

I drew an audible breath before I could stop myself.

Scars formed a crisscross pattern all over his skin. Old, white scars, long and straight, from his shoulders all the way down.

I gritted my teeth, looked ahead, and sat down on a rock. He didn't move, perched on his own boulder two steps away from me.

These weren't the scars you get from an accident. They were too many, too methodical, too deliberate. Just thinking of the pain they implied made my stomach cramp.

Who would do that to a human being? Why? Where?

Where—that question was innocent enough.

"Where are you from?" I said.

He shrugged, briefly, without looking at me. "I've spent time in more places than I could count."

"And originally?"

"Morocco."

I looked at his scars again. I've heard tales about unwarranted police violence there, but Farid didn't seem the type who'd attract that kind of attention. Or would he?

"It's not what you think," he said.

"What?"

"The scars. Aren't you thinking about them?" His gaze was still on the water, and a muscle twitched in his cheek.

A sensitive topic. Still, I couldn't stop myself. "Who did that? And why?"

He huffed. "It was a long time ago. And some things are best left in the past, where they belong. My scars... they are one of them."

The finality in his last words prevented me from digging further into the topic.

His stance hadn't changed. He sat there like that famous black sculpture of a thinker. But his body was more a fighter's than a philosopher's. He wasn't tall, but wiry muscle moved under his smooth skin. Smooth everywhere but on his ravaged back.

Realizing that I was gritting my teeth, I tried to relax. It had been a long time ago, he had said. But wounds like that would change a man for life, no?

They would breed hate and bitterness.

He uncoiled, sat straight, and looked at me. "And you? Where are you from?"

"Los Angeles." My answer rang so mundane, embarrassing for its normalcy.

"And what did you do in Hong Kong?"

"Hong Kong was only a stopover. I was at a UNESCO meeting in Manila."

He raised an eyebrow. "U.N.?"

"No, UNESCO."

"The UNESCO is a Specialized Agency of the U.N."

"Right." Few people knew that. "You're with the U.N., too?"

He shook his head. "No, definitely not."

Definitely not? I didn't like that skeptical tone. Working for an international organization was nothing to be ashamed of.

"Do you have a problem with the United Nations?" I asked.

"That's another long story."

When he didn't elaborate, I decided to go for another topic. "What do you do, then?" The man embodied a riddle, and I wanted to know more.

"Finances." He looked at the sea once more, his left hand a tight fist.

Yes, he had said that before, but there had to be me more. "And what did you do in Hong Kong?"

Who are you? Dark, mysterious, in finances, a trove of quotes, and scarred for life.

"A meeting... with friends."

"The people you were traveling with?" I realized it when I spoke the words—they were all dead now, all except Bruna. "I didn't know they were your friends. I'm sorry for your loss."

"It's... complex."

"Was there anyone... close to you among them?"

Not even the muscle in his cheek twitched. "I've known some of them for a long time. But we weren't that close. More like business friends."

And what about Bruna? I didn't dare ask that aloud. So I pondered the expression 'business friends' instead. It had a mafia ring to it.

"Clients of yours?" I asked.

"Kind of." With a swift motion, he stood and turned towards his clothes, which made him face away from me, giving me a view of a set of perfect buttocks below his scars.

He put on his underpants. I doubted they were dry yet—mine weren't. Then he reached for his trousers and shirt. "You're coming? You shouldn't stay alone out here."

"Okay."

My clothes were still damp, but at least the water had washed away some of the stale sweat. I left my blouse unbuttoned for drying as I followed Farid over the stony shore.

His shirt now covered his back, but his scars were still there—underneath, hidden from view but present, together with the pain they embodied.

If someone had done that to me, I would hate. I would crave revenge.

Would I blow up an airplane to satisfy that craving?

I shook my head, chastising myself for such thoughts. Farid wasn't the type who'd do something as abominable as that.

I tore my gaze away from his back.

The sun had climbed well above the horizon, its rays hot enough to make me appreciate my damp clothing even though my pants were chafing my skin.

I wondered if Chris had returned as I gazed ahead towards the still rising smoke of our fire.

My belly rumbled, and my gums were dry.

We ascended a short slope towards the plateau where the others were. Yves and Nita were sitting beside the fire, holding hands, looking subdued.

He waved when he saw us. "Have you seen Chris?"

"No," Farid said. "Where's Bruna?"

"I'm here, don't you worry." She was sitting in the shade under the bushes, her face pale.

He didn't reply and squatted beside the fire instead. I joined him. The wind had stopped, and the smoke ascended as a white trail into the now almost clear sky. It could probably be seen for miles.

"We should add some more green stuff," I said. "We need more smoke."

"Right." He got up. "I'll get—"

He stopped and stared at the bushes.

I followed his gaze.

A figure walked towards us, still half hidden by the greenery.

It was Chris. There were large, red stains on his shirt.