“Dalia?” Grigsby asked quietly into the sat-phone.
“Grigsby?” the voice on the other end asked.

Ira and Ryūki leaned in toward the phone and tried to overhear what Grigsby’s ex-fiancé was saying.

“Wow, this is, out of the blue. It’s been a long time.” Dalia said.
Grigsby smiled and nodded, “Yes, it’s good to hear your voice. Are you still at the family plantation?”
“Yes, what’s this all about, it’s four in the morning Grigsby.”
Grigsby bit his lower lip, “I’m in a wee bit of pickle in Ethiopia.”

Grigsby spent the next ten minutes filling Dalia in on his last 48 hours. From the pirates to being declared a prophet by some tribe. Grigsby then asked if Dalia’s past family still has their coffee plantations outside Nairobi, Kenya. Dalia said she’s running the whole show. He was happy for her, the plantation was a perennial topic when they were at college together. Grigsby remembered the surprise she gave him in on his birthday back in college. She piloted a small plane from Boston to Deer Isle, Maine for clam chowder and lobsters.

“Are you still licensed to fly?” Grigsby asked.
“Gee Grigsby, I don’t—”
“I’ll pay you, what ever the cost, I’ll buy out your biggest competitor.”
Dalia laughed, “Always the financier. Okay, Grigsby.”
“You’re a saint,” Grigsby said, “You have a pen?” Grigsby told Dalia their coordinates. Dalia began marking them on a flight map and gasped.
“Grigsby…are you still with the tribe?”
“Yes, we’re in one of the huts. Is there a place for you to land?”
Dalia was quiet for some time and then spoke softly. “The patterns on the tribal smock you said they gave you, are those colors red and orange by any chance?”
“Yes, why?”
“That’s the Awradoro Tribe. They’re cannibals.”

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