While Gordon talks, Sanderson scratches at his facial hair, which doesn’t quite come together to form a mustache or goatee but grows in ornery patches around his face. He has the general appearance of a stray cat.
Sanderson wrinkles his brow as Gordon steers the boat out of Rockland Harbor. “Maximized morning,” he says in a daze. “I’m Mike Sanderson. Been at Wisewood three and a half years.”
“Three years, wow,” Cheryl says. “You must love it here.”
Sanderson swallows. “Wisewood saved me. Hang tight—we’re about to pick up speed.”
The cold is even more punishing once we’ve left the marina. My teeth chatter; hair whips my face. I pull a fleece hat from my bag and watch the coast recede, feeling an irrational pull toward the harbor.
I wonder whether Kit has ever driven the Hourglass. God, this is so like her: throwing herself headfirst into an endeavor with no regard for how it affects anyone else. As long as she’s pursuing her true north, she doesn’t mind, probably doesn’t even notice, when she leaves people adrift. She can afford that selfishness; no one has ever depended on her. She’s always had someone to lean on: me.
Letting out a deep breath, I try to break up the ball of queasiness in my abdomen. I have no room to talk when it comes to brushing away the consequences of my actions; I am the blackest of pots. I try to relax my hands, but they keep clutching each other when I’m not paying attention.
“None of you are from Maine, right?” Sanderson asks, eyes losing that glazed-over quality. “Me neither. Check it: there are over forty-six hundred islands in this state.”
Cheryl gasps. I lift my eyebrows. Chloe doesn’t react, completely indifferent.
“Right now we’re on Penobscot Bay, which opens into the Atlantic. You might have heard of Vinalhaven, the most crowded island in the area, if you can call twelve hundred people a crowd. We only make the seven-mile trip from Wisewood to Vinalhaven to pick up mail—”
Cheryl squeals, pointing at the water. “Is that a seal?”
While everyone else peers where she’s pointing, Gordon watches me. I pretend not to notice. A gray blob bounces in the distance.
“Excellent spot, Cheryl,” Sanderson cheers, pulling out a pair of binoculars and doing his best Steve Irwin. He’s a different person now than he was in the harbor, chatty and happy, no longer nervously glancing at Gordon every thirty seconds. “We see tons of seals around here, otters and porpoises too. You should all keep an eye out. Once a bunch of dolphins even swam alongside the boat. So dope.”
Cheryl oohs and aahs while Chloe leans over the rail. The mention of marine life makes me think of Kit’s walrus impression, assisted by breadsticks. She would do anything to get a chuckle out of Mom and me: that goofy butt dance, corny dad jokes, the way she rode her bike with no hands while belting Mariah Carey, dead serious that she thought she sounded good when in reality her voice sounded like a crow in distress. When I realize I’m thinking of her in the past tense, my breath catches.
By now Maine’s coastline has disappeared. Wild islands surround us. At their shorelines are slabs of granite so monstrous a person could fall between two and disappear forever. Towering evergreens have consumed every inch of land beyond the granite, huddling in such thick clusters you can’t see past them. They lean away from the water, recoiling as one, and it’s no wonder. The sea roars and roils, steel in color and resolve. A wispy fog envelops us, dancing on the surface of the bay. Instead of descending from the silver sky, the vapors climb out of the water, otherworldly. I peer over the side of the boat, trying to find their source. I sense something is down there, watching, waiting.
“What’s the deal with the fog, Sanderson?” Cheryl asks.
“It’s sea smoke. Super-cold air moving over warmer water.”
“Does that mean we can swim at Wisewood?” says Chloe, who I’m relieved still has a pulse. “If the water is warm?”
Sanderson frowns. “It only reaches the high fifties, even in summer, so I don’t think you’d want to. But we have a class for advanced students called Mastering Extreme Elements that includes some gnarly cold-water swimming.”
“How deep is it out here?” Cheryl asks.
“Twelve feet.”
Cheryl gestures to Chloe, herself, and me. “And are your guest groups usually this small?”
“Depends on the time of year. Not many peeps want to come here in winter. If the wind kicks up too much, the water becomes unpassable. That means no leaving the island for weeks at a time. Not that you dudes would notice. We have plenty of food and medical supplies—nothing to worry about.”