Hugh’s not beside me, but I knew that too. Even before I woke up, I knew it. He hasn’t come to bed yet tonight. He has been in the room, though. I woke briefly, soon after falling asleep, and saw him at the window, staring out at the sea. I sat up, blearily curious, saw a glimmer of firelight and thought it was Sunnan, that they were keeping the campfires lit late for the children. Hugh turned and said, “Sleep, sweetheart,” and somehow I did, comforted.

But it wasn’t Sunnan. Of course it wasn’t. Our bedroom window faces north.

It’s 12:03 now. I slide out of bed and reach blindly for the long cardigan hanging over my vanity chair, wrapping it around me like soft armor. I stretch my arm out before I reach the window sash, afraid to get too close. Then I peel the curtain away and peer out. The moon is smothered by clouds tonight, so the view is almost pure black, except for bright flickering orange in exactly the right spot.

There are fires burning on Joseph’s Rock.

There’s something about Joseph’s Rock I’m meant to remember. A dream. Or maybe not, a memory. A fact. Something.

I shudder, blinking, and when I open my eyes, both the thought and the fires are gone.

Not blown out, one by one, not fading away. Gone. They never were. The moon creeps out from behind a cloud, lighting up the waves in silver ripples. I can see the dark silhouette of the island, but nothing on it.

I imagined it. I must have. Maybe I’m asleep even now.

The window jerks. Bang.

I jump back, breathing hard. Something’s slammed into it—a branch. It’s that hawthorn tree. I keep meaning to ask them to prune it back. It taps the window in storms and frankly creeps me out even on normal days. So pretty when it’s flowering, but even then, I get the pervading sense that it’s asking to come inside the house. There’s no storm right now that I can see to blow it so forcefully, and there’s no one to prune it because they’ve all been in the Arctic and the Pacific and North Africa and Eastern Europe fighting for their lives and ours.

And ours.

I yank the curtain shut without daring to look at the window, something telling me to go back to bed, urging me away from the glass, back into softness and oblivion. You’re not ready for this yet. Rest up.

Sleep, I order myself, pulling the covers high. Hugh won’t sleep. None of them out there will, for all I know. But I will. I’m not from here. I’ll sleep.

And I do.

7:00 A.M.

Sometimes I wake up tangled in the loose threads of my dreams, other times in memory, thick and abrasive.