“Not a problem.” He considered the map. He was wearing a faded pair of work pants, a yellow shirt, and a brown hoodie. He stood on one foot for a second while he itched his ankle with the other shoe. People came and went, buying ferry tickets, grabbing brochures, using the bathroom, taking the free coffee. It felt good to stay put while others had to get back in their cars and leave. It’s amazing how quickly a place can start feeling like home base.

“Here’s the route you want,” he said. “I’ve been this way a dozen times. It only gets tricky here.” He put his finger on the map. The roads were tiny capillaries crisscrossing. “Seems like you don’t have GPS. Why don’t you just take this with you? You can return it when you come back through. I’ll just highlight the road.”

“Maybe you should come with me,” I said.

He considered me for a minute. He didn’t laugh.

“I’m kidding,” I said. “But thanks for the map. That’s super nice.”

“Yeah, well. I’m super nice,” he said.

I took the atlas from him. I liked the line he’d drawn with a pink highlighter, like a river I could follow to an important source.

“Bye,” I said. He smiled, pushed his hair off his forehead.

I went to the door of the ferry terminal. People were rushing down the chilly street with their hands in their pockets. I saw my car in the parking lot, and I imagined myself walking toward it, sitting in the driver’s seat, closing the door. I imagined myself driving down the road, leaving Carson Cove behind, joining the great migration of cars crossing the Cape Cod Canal, flooding onto the highway, heading north, heading to a town that might have a name I needed.

But I couldn’t go.

The sound of cars rushing past came at me, and my heart started to pound. There’s nothing wrong with tires on a cold street, I told myself. But my heart thumped, and blood coursed beneath my skin. There’s nothing wrong with tires on a cold street. I decided to walk out the door, to my car. I saw it there and I decided to walk to it and get in and close the door and drive. But I could hear through the open door the rush of cars and trucks, and the rush was like the rush of blood in the ears, the rush of a terrible wave, of everything being extinguished at once—

“Is something wrong?” Oz had come out of his information booth and was standing behind me.

“I just changed my mind.”

He said something, but I could hardly hear him. His voice was lost in the roar.

“What?” I asked.

“Are you hyperventilating?”

“Everything’s fine,” I said, a little angrily.

“Shit,” he said. “Can you just try to breathe a little?”