A few hours later he has forgotten who he is, and how he got there. All that is left is a deep, encompassing fire. It is angry. So is the child. So is the doctor who sits by his bedside, the only one there who had tried.
Something in the storm broke. Between flashes of faces that he had clung to for dear life, there is the grey, foaming shore of a seaside town. It felt different, unlike anything else he had felt before. There are things in the air he is alien to. The degree of the salt is less, the chill is much colder. It digs into ever nerve. The sky is crystal grey. He had never seen a grey quite so pure.
All the burning had fled, his mind felt bent and stretched to near capacity. Whatever pain he had felt has concentrated up into his head, face pressed into wet sand, ears filled with water and roaring as the rough waves broke, the fingertips of the edge feel at the wet clothes that are metal-tight to his body.
Rushed and intense murmuring caught his attention. As he lifted his head up as much as he could, he saw the strobe flashing of a police car, on the road elevated above the sand. The mental capacity to be confused isn't something he possesed. So he continued to look up at the strange couple, who had pulled him away from the seas edge. They turned to face an approaching figure, who to Isaiah was nothing but a blonde and blue blur.
There were always new arrivals coming to the island. People had a lot of guesses for why - that it was an intersection of ley lines, that it was important in the spacetime continuum, that a large concentration of magic made magic more likely to target it - but in the end, it didn't matter. It just was. Weird people (well, weird by the standards of the rest of the world) showed up on the island all the time. Often they were confused. Often they didn't know where they were, or had just dealt with something traumatic. It was so common there was even a code for it - a 239 - which got called in any time a person, living or dead, showed up in a weird place. Sometimes it wasn't an arrival at all, just a teleport gone wrong, but a lot of the time it was.
He was expecting hyperventilating. That had already happened to him three times out of six when dealing with new arrivals. All but one had freaked out when he'd explained, but having a full on panic attack was pretty regular. All you could do was wait, answer questions, and then ferry them off to whoever was the best fit. That part, at least, wasn't his job - he took them back to the station, and then the Manta Carlos equivalent of a social worker (specifically for new arrivals) got to do the rest.