Her entire life, Miranda had lived on the island, the only child in a community of aging castaways. Few islanders ever had children. Infertility was a side effect of the plague.
By Miranda’s tenth birthday, the community’s population had dwindled to a couple dozen. The radio in the meetinghouse squawked news of proposed hydroelectric developments that would flood the island. Most mainland dwellers believed the quarantined colony extinct.
When planes began buzzing over the island, the islanders hid until Miranda’s papa had an idea. Surely when the mainlanders saw a girl playing on the shore, they would reconsider the development.
Miranda started running. She gathered all the debris she could find. Her dad was watching from his hiding place. What was she doing? Would she be safe?
A week later, Miranda was interviewed by a reporter. She didn’t like the attention, but needed to tell the world about her community. The island dwellers were so proud of her. They couldn’t have imagined the good outcome of it all. One of the pilots had spotted the text on the beach. Please. A small word, but with the most amazing impact. The island was now a national park.