The scent of beach roses drifts through the dock house on a warm breeze. Flush with pleasure, I listen to the rain on the roof and the strong, otherworldly thudding of his heart against mine, our limbs intertwined, feeling weightless and filled with bliss and hope.

I don’t feel cursed at all.

For the first time in years, I don’t feel alone.

I want to stay here. I want it to last forever.

I know it can’t.

But when the doorway of the dock house lights up, and an apocalyptic crash thunders beneath our bodies, I’m genuinely surprised that we don’t even get five stinking minutes.

Chapter 19

FOR EMERGENCIES, SEE LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER: Sign posted inside small dock house at northern end of Rapture Island in Narragansett Bay. The rugged building doesn’t appear to have been in use for many years. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)

Chapter 19

A howling gust of wind roars through the door, driving rain into the dock house. Our cooler shifts across the floor, and the door slams shut, leaving us in darkness.

“What … was that?” I shout over the driving rain. It sounds like a war hitting the metal roof. I’m scrambling to get up in a panic, but my legs don’t work. Knees jelly.

Naked Lucky is already on his feet, taking all his warmth away, and yanking the door open to peer outside.

Can’t see much of anything—it’s raining too hard—but I think the dock house got struck by lightning. The gods are smiting us for our wickedness.

“Did we get hit?” I shout, holding a hand up to my face as rain comes through the crack in the door that Lucky peers through. “The lightning rod worked?”

It must have, because we’re still standing. “Can’t see anything,” Lucky says, coming back to hurriedly slip his clothes on, and I do the same, a little panicked. After a minute or so, when the rain slows enough for us to open the door all the way and prop it back with the cooler, we both stick our heads outside to assess the damage. I notice that a utility light is now shining down on the sign. It’s probably automatic, one that has a sensor that detects when it’s dark and triggers it to turn on. I’m so busy thinking about this that I don’t notice that Lucky is frozen.

He’s staring agog at the pier.

What’s that funny smell?

Oh God.

He’s not staring at the pier, because there is no pier. There’s only a single wooden pole where it was once attached to the land, and it’s scorched black and smoking. Pieces of wood drift on the surface of the dark water in every direction as if they were hit by a bomb. And the Narwhal …