I try not to look over my shoulder and across my shrunken backyard. I’m pretty good at it, after six months of practice. I keep my eyes forward as I head around the house, or look down at the stumpy green and brown spikes of grass and choose my path carefully as I walk up the little hill, because the steps that are there to make it easier to walk up are wrecked and do the opposite of what they’re there for. But obviously my mind hates me and when I get to the top of the hill where the path to my house meets the road, my head twists and I glance behind me and everything stops.

I feel ungrateful, but I hate it so much, this view, this breathtaking view. Most people would think I’m lucky to have it. I am, I know, but I hate it. It’s like falling through noise. Christ, the ocean makes so much noise. It’s like a jet engine. But no one complains because the ocean is beautiful and beauty lets you get away with murder. My chest closes up, I turn my back to it, but the noise persists. It keeps coming, and even though I can’t breathe I somehow have to outrun it while it roars at me, drooling with its hunger to swallow me up.

I take the hill in long, tense strides, every step a trade-off between speed and balance, keeping the pie from falling, keeping myself upright, holding it together. I rest at the top of the hill and force my face in the other direction, to the middle of the island. I can just about make out the point of the steeple. Not far from here, but as far from the ocean as it gets. The Valium is kicking in. My shoulders retreat away from my ears, and when I get my wind back, and the sweat on my skin starts to cool, I press on.

Lolly’s house is secluded on the south side of the island. I’ve long since finished my slice of pie and squeezed the napkin into a hard little ball by the time I reach my nearest neighbor’s house. It belongs to a Wrinkly called Nick. I square my hips with his front door and hold my offering in front of me in a way I hope is appealing. His house is just like mine but further from the cliff. It will go over someday, but mine will go first. That timeline would be all wrong back in the Bad Place, but here it’s perfectly fair.

Two stories, simple shingled roof, white wooden siding, freshly raked gravel path from the door to the entrance. Big windows like curious eyes gaze out at the passerby. I force myself to walk to the door against all my better judgment.