Cheryl bobs her head.
“Check out my three o’clock,” Sanderson says. “See the bald eagle on top of that tree? We have a lot of these guys in the area.”
From wildlife Sanderson moves on to naming the landmasses around us: Hurricane, White, Spectacle, Crotch （yes, seriously）， Lawrys, Cedar, Dogfish. Some islands he points out have houses on them, but most don’t. Every new isle is identical to the last: an army of spruce trees trying to spear the sky, granite breakwaters guarding the perimeter. Out here you can’t hear an ambulance siren or the ping of a new e-mail. Already we’re too far away.
After a lengthy silence, I sneak a peek at Sanderson. He’s gazing at the horizon, mind a million miles away again.
“Are you all right, son?” Cheryl asks him.
For the second time since leaving the harbor, Gordon turns around. “Tell them about your setback today. What we discussed on the ride over.”
Sanderson grimaces. “I’ve been sober three and a half years. Not a single drop.” He gnaws on his lips like he’s trying to stop the words from coming out. “This morning I woke up, and the urge was strong. Stronger than usual. I thought I’d take the boat ashore, find the nearest bar, have a drink. Just one.” He closes his eyes. “Instead I told Gordon about it. He offered to make the ride with me, so I didn’t have to face temptation alone.”
“We’re all about helping one another here,” Gordon says, his attention back on the wheel.
Sanderson forces a smile, pale and sweaty despite the temperature.
“It must be so hard changing old habits,” Cheryl says.
“The key to recovery isn’t fixing your old life,” Sanderson says. “It’s starting a new one.”
Gordon points at an isle in the distance. “Here we are.” He glares at Sanderson. “Home sweet home.”
Wisewood has the same thick forest as the other islands, with a coastline of boulders, but as we make our way around the island, the forest gives way to a manicured hedge wall at least eight feet tall. In the middle of it is a wrought iron gate. Past the gate, a long path leads to a silent misshapen structure.
The geometric building appears to be two stories, but it’s hard to tell. Walls jut from more walls, as if the house has grown tumors. Some sides are floor-to-ceiling glass, while others are painted the same deep green as the forest.
“This is Teacher’s home,” Sanderson says.
Teacher? Is that what they call the guy who runs this place? I can already picture him: perpetually barefoot, wavy brown Jesus hair, wire-rimmed glasses, eyes open a little too wide. I’ve seen the documentaries.
What has he done to inspire such devotion in these people?
The boat passes the gate, and the hedge wall obscures most of the building once more. Ahead of us, an aluminum pier protrudes from the water, unyielding as waves crash against it. A small lump rests on the end of the jetty. I squint. It’s a backpack.
Gordon stops the Hourglass, and both men tie her up. With Sanderson’s help, the three of us wobble onto the snow-powdered pier with our luggage. A gust of wind mauls us, nearly blowing Chloe into the water. I hold her arm until she steadies. Sanderson puts on the backpack. It appears heavy, packed to the gills. Embroidered on the top strap is MS. Mike Sanderson.
“I’ll take that.” Gordon reaches for the bag.
“I’ve got it,” Sanderson says.
“I insist.” Gordon yanks it off his back. Bag clenched in one hand, he gestures to Sanderson with the other. “Please. Lead the way.”
Sanderson opens his mouth and closes it again. He ducks his head from the wind, then leads us to the start of the pier. What did he need that huge backpack for? Why did he leave it behind? Why won’t Gordon let him carry it?
We step onto the island, cloaked in several inches of snow. Someone has shoveled a path wide enough for one person from the pier all the way to the front gate. Frozen earth and dead grass crunch beneath our feet as we bustle up the path single file, Sanderson in front and Gordon in back. Once again, I sense his eyes crawling over me.
When we reach the gate, Sanderson punches a code into the security system. The doors open. Cheryl, Chloe, and Sanderson dash through. I spin a slow circle. At the pier, the Hourglass flails on the water. I can’t see another blot of land from here.
That’s all Wisewood is: a crumb in the middle of a savage ocean.
“Let’s go, Ms. Collins,” Gordon says.
I run to join the others as the gate closes behind me.
The front yard is a modernist garden, snow-covered topiary in the shapes of cones, cubes, and spheres. Every shrub is just so. The wind shrieks like a woman being stabbed over and over, shoving us up the path. I tighten my scarf around my neck, reminded of nooses and snares. I squint at the lair of grotesque angles ahead.