“Here.” He holds the tissues at arm’s length like he’s afraid to get near me in my state, but even with both our arms outstretched, I can’t reach. He gently tosses the box to me and it falls to the ground between us, loud in the silence.

I scoot it closer with my foot and bend to extract a tissue before raising my eyes to meet his. In this light, they are a thunderstorm, the kind no photographer could ever truly capture.

“You can leave,” I say thickly. I can feel the fight seeping out of me with each traitorous tear. I want to be mad, vengeful, but all I am is crushed. “I know you hate people. I’ve read your interviews.”

Maybe I’m so pathetic that even this reclusive author who hates the world has taken pity on me, or I’m hallucinating, but I swear something in Endsley’s expression changes. His eyes briefly leave me, staring over my head to the lighthouse, his jaw tight and his eyes slightly narrowed, and when they return he seems resigned. After a sigh, he takes two long steps to my side and not-so-gently tugs on my arm.

“Sit,” he says. Another command from a king used to getting his way.

“What?” I ask, startled. “Why?”

“Because not so long ago somebody did the same thing I’m about to do for you. Sit.”

Curious and disoriented, I fold myself down beside him so we are both cross-legged on the compass rug. He turns ever so slightly to face me, sticking his hand out.

“I’m Endsley,” he says.

It’s like having Taylor Swift introducing herself at a concert. It’s preposterous, giggle-worthy, but I don’t laugh.

“I know,” I say, shaking his hand, only realizing after we touch that I’m using the hand I wiped away snot with. “Amelia.”

“Right,” he says. “Right.” He digs around in his pocket and extracts a flip phone, a chunky thing that looks grossly out of place in a world of slim, keyboardless touch screens.

“I don’t really like smartphones,” he says.

I nod, imagining whales free to roam hundreds of miles in a day, sunset after sunset.

He types in a four-digit passcode and uses the archaic arrow pad to navigate to a large icon labeled “Digital Photos.” A grainy photo of an emaciated gray dog appears on the tiny screen.