It’s not the place.
She kept telling herself this, but it wasn’t helping.
She swallowed, the acrid taste of bile in her throat.
It was cold on deck, the wind’s icy fingers prying open the buttons of her coat.
She gripped the steel rail as she watched the bow cleave the black water.
The motors’ throb grew louder as the ferry cleared the point and steered into the bay, the deck rising and falling against the chop.
Turning, she watched the dark island recede into the night sky, the white churn of foaming wake.
It’s not the place, she chanted.