It happened on a Tuesday. Tuesdays were never his best days. The humidity in Seville had turned his map parchment soft, his quill rebellious, and his patience nonexistent. While drawing the edge of the known New World — that mysterious mass of green promises called La Florida — he sneezed. Violently. The quill slipped, and where there should have been coastline, there appeared a small, perfectly oval island, floating just off the mainland like a smug punctuation mark.
