Julian Voss woke on an island that did not exist.
He knew this immediately, because the island was the size of a tennis court, covered in bald cypress trees that should not grow in Manhattan, and surrounded by water that should have been Central Park Lake, not whatever this was—some wide, slow river with a current that smelled of algae and old wood. He sat up. He was wearing his office clothes: a charcoal suit, a white shirt, leather shoes...
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