I spun around to take in the property. Everything was damp from the morning fog still lingering on the ridge across the valley—incidentally, the ridge where I had grown up—and I saw a gap in the thick cluster of trees where I could just barely make out the roof of my old house. My mom, Ingrid, had sold the place back when I was in college, right before she remarried and relocated to Dallas. I hadn’t laid eyes on it in years.

The woodsy, mossy smell of my childhood lingered in the air, and that, along with the quick glimpse of the house, caused me to experience a pang of Mill Valley hiraeth that was both crushing and comforting all at once.

“I forgot to ask you on the phone,” Rae said as she opened the door. “Are you good with dogs?”

I didn’t have time to answer her before the tallest, gangliest dog I’d ever seen came rushing in our direction. So enormous, it didn’t even seem like a dog; it seemed like a furry, prehistoric creature. I stood still while it sniffed my fist and wagged its yardstick-long tail.

“This is Diego. He looks intimidating but he’s a giant baby.” Rae held her bag of snacks up over her head so the dog couldn’t get to it.

The dog’s head reached my ribcage, and I was certain it outweighed me, probably by twenty-five pounds. “I’ve never seen a dog this big.”

“Irish wolfhound. Tallest breed in the world.” The dog ran off as we walked into the studio and then trotted back with a thick piece of rope in its mouth.

I played a quick game of tug with Diego and glanced around the room, which smelled like turpentine, hot metal, and palo santo. The studio was a big, loftlike space—probably once a barn—with a high ceiling, the center of which held two large skylights that were littered with fallen branches, dead leaves, and other random forest detritus that I silently vowed to clean if I got the job. I could see a portioned-off film set in the back, decorated to look like an old suburban living room: lots of grandma patterns and textures, only with fake blood splattered on everything, like a crime scene. A camera sat on a tripod in front of the little alcove, and a small lighting rig was set up to the side.

Another prop I noticed in the makeshift room was a beautiful old Gibson Dove that sent a shockwave to my heart. It had been years since I’d taken my guitar out from under the bed, and seeing one without warning was like running into an old, unrequited love.

The canvases up against the wall were in various stages of being built and/or drawn, but not yet painted. They were clearly part of a series and had gigantic sketches of vintage boats on them, with ship-related phrases stenciled on top of the images. The first one I saw read, “I’LL SINK THIS SHIP IF I WANT TO.” Another said, “SAILING ON A SHIP OF FOOLS.” And another, the one that spoke to me with poignant and rather heartbreaking significance, even then, said, “BOY DID YOU MISS THE BOAT.”