As soon as Cole opens the door, an overpowering odor floods my nose. But it’s different than before. This isn’t paint. Or sawdust.

“Smell that?” he asks me, and I nod.

It’s musky. Sweet and earthy. Like fresh sweat and hay and manure. It smells like—

“Horses,” I whisper. My voice creaks like the barn door. And Cole nods.

“There haven’t been horses in this barn for more than thirty years.”

He ushers me inside and closes the door gently behind us. A single light bulb glows at the edge of the stage, and I stand, transfixed, and stare at it.

“The ghost light,” Cole tells me. “It’s tradition to leave it burning at night.” I want to tell him that I know that. Of course I know that. But I have trouble getting the words out.

I let him lead me over to the little bathroom. The one I stood in just hours ago. When I drowned on dry land. I don’t look at myself in the mirror as Cole runs warm water in the sink and dampens stiff paper towels to wipe the crusted salt from my face. The sand from my arms and legs. His touch is so gentle that it makes me cry. Because I’m exhausted and scared and frozen. And I don’t know what any of this means.

He reaches out to tuck a strand of damp hair behind my ear. “Avril? Look at me.” I can’t make my voice work, but I manage to find his face with my eyes. “You’re safe,” he tells me. And I nod.

Cole leads me over to the stage, and we sit together on the edge. Bathed in the ghost light’s glow. It’s warm in the barn. And I feel myself start to thaw.

“What were you doing?” I finally ask him. “Out there?”

He laughs. It’s a low, gravely sound that comes from somewhere deep in his throat. “I could ask you the same thing.” I flinch at that, and the hard angles of his face soften. “I walk sometimes.” He shrugs. “At night when I can’t sleep. Which is always.”

I run my tongue over my lips, and they feel raw. Chapped by the night wind and the salt spray. How long was I standing out there? In the surf. Before the foghorn woke me up?

“I saw you,” Cole tells me. “I was sitting on the back steps of the farmhouse, and I saw you walk by. You passed near the porch light. And I saw your face.”

“I don’t remember,” I tell him. “I don’t—” The words get hung up in my mouth.

“You were sleepwalking,” he says. “Is that something you’ve done before?”