Then everything had gone blank until the morning, when Sarah had found herself sitting upright and fully dressed in Will’s living room. Will, too, was dressed, except for his shoes, and he was talking on the phone. His feet looked like small pink animals as he walked over the dark-lacquered floorboards. Sarah filed the phrase away—small pink animals—thinking that she’d use it in her work. Thinking about Will’s feet meant that she wasn’t thinking about what had happened during the hours she couldn’t remember.

Her ivory blouse was spattered with soy sauce, her pants were stiff with something she didn’t want to think about, her head ached terribly, with a pain so sharp that her eyes watered. Had they gone to bed? Should she ask? Or would he be insulted if they had, and she couldn’t remember? She looked at him, trying to decide. In the unforgiving morning light, she could see the lines around Will’s eyes, the discoloration of his skin, which made him look his age, whatever that was (fifty? sixty? sixty-five?).

He ended his call, pocketed the slim, silvery phone that she was sure was the very, very latest, and smiled at her. “I think what you need is a writer’s retreat. I’ve made the arrangements,” he’d said. “There’s a car waiting downstairs. You’ll be on the one o’clock ferry to Elder Island. Have you ever been?” He must have guessed, from her shocked face, that no, Sarah had never been to the ultraexclusive enclave, between Martha’s Vineyard and the Cape. “I’ve got a home there, and I’ve rented you a place.” He turned away, giving her his profile as he looked out his window, down at the city. “It’s a wild place.”

“Wild, like parties?” Sarah’s mouth felt very dry, and her thoughts, and her body, felt sluggish, like her heart was taking an extra-long time with each beat.

“Well, in the summertime, sure. But that’s not what I meant. Wild, like unspoiled. You’ll like it there.”

“But—my job—” She’d gotten a part-time position teaching English at a prep school where tuition for a semester cost more than she’d made in the last eighteen months.

“Art demands sacrifice,” said Will, with a wink. “And I can give Perry a call.” Perry was Perry King, the headmaster of the school and, it turned out, a friend of Will’s. While Sarah was trying to remember if she’d told Will where she’d been teaching, he was talking about the arrangements. “It’s a fully winterized house. You’ll be comfortable. It’ll be quiet. I’ll make sure you aren’t disturbed, and I’ll advance you money for food and incidentals.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Do you have Venmo?”