I manage to push myself up.

“I have to go.”

“Stay,” Cole says. He’s kneeling in front of the couch now. He presses his lips to mine, and I crave more of him. He tastes salty. Like the sea. But I pull back.

“I can’t stay here.” Cole is tucking the blanket around me. But I can’t be in the house with Brody. I know that. It isn’t safe.

I shove the blanket onto the floor. Stand up. Slide my feet into my flip-flops. I’m heading toward the back door.

“Wait,” Cole says. “I’ll walk with you back to the cabins.” I let him follow me out into the dark.

The fog.

I’m instantly confused. Turned around. But Cole leads me back toward the path to Whisper Cove, and when it gets steep, he reaches for my hand. Holds on tight.

We come out of the woods onto the great lawn. But I still can’t see a thing. The fog is thicker than I’ve ever seen it. It’s like looking at a gray wall.

Cole is still holding my hand. We feel our way across the grass. And neither of us speaks. If we did, I don’t know if we’d even be able to hear each other. The fog would probably absorb the sound. Swallow the words and leave us with silence.

It seems like we’ve been walking forever.

Finally I see the flicker of lights in the farmhouse windows. Upstairs in one of the rooms—Brody’s office, maybe—someone has left a lamp on. And tonight, it’s our lighthouse.

We make our way to the sea porch so we can sit together on the steps. I’m grateful for the familiar feeling of the rough stone under me. My legs are shaking. I’m cold. Wet and exhausted.

I tilt my head back to look up at the green-and-white-striped awning. Maybe it will jog my memory. If I can remember something else about that fight, the one I overheard here when I was five, maybe somehow all of this will make sense.

But tonight there is no awning to block out my view of the stars. I see them shining, dim and far away, through the fog. It reminds me of looking up at them from underwater while I was drowning.

“Cole,” I whisper. But he’s staring over his shoulder. I look back to see what he’s looking at, and there are no picnic tables, either.

A broom leans by the door. There’s a braided rug. A bucket.

A child’s wooden toy.

“Cole.” My voice is threaded with fear. He holds a finger to his lips.

“Shhh,” he whispers. “We’ll wake them up.”

“What is this? What’s happening?”