The small, grey private helicopter burst through the clouds. Its tail read “RYJ84.”

  “Jesus, that’s loud!” Mike Wilson said, watching the helicopter descend toward the helipad at Juan Santamaría. He had never seen a helicopter up close. It’s far too windy to be doing this, he thought as it landed.

  “Sí, se?or, los helicópteros are very loud,” one of the workers said as he led Mike toward the helicopter, pressing his head down and keeping his own head low as well.

  As the worker shut the helicopter door, Mike looked out toward where he thought the ocean was. He was going to Isla Nublar—the island of clouds. It had been four years since the events on that island, but he was still nervous.

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  “The island is empty. You’ll be fine. Just write the story and leave!” his boss had told him.

  He was a reporter for The New York Times, covering a story on Isla Nublar.

  Mike was a tall, brown-haired man with a small beard. His glasses sat crooked on his face—he hadn’t fixed them since boarding the helicopter. They were now flying over the open ocean, heading west. He took off his New York Yankees cap and stared out the window, watching the ships far below.

  He wasn’t sure all the dinosaurs had been eradicated in the bombing of the island. After all, what if some had found shelter underground or something? But he had to do this story. If he did, he’d be famous!

  No one had set foot on the island since 1993, and he was going to be the first.

  “Excuse me, pilot, how much longer until we get to the island?” he asked over the headset on the seat next to him.

  “About 30 more minutes, se?or,” the pilot said.

  Then, a violent shake rattled the cabin.

  “What the hell was that?!” Mike shouted.

  “Just a bit of turbulence, friend!” the pilot replied. “Only 15 more minutes until we’re there!”

  Mike sighed and stared out the window.