“Have you ever thought about getting a tattoo?” she asks Taylor.

“Not really. I mean, one time Finley decided that when we were all eighteen we were going to get Whiskey Tango Foxtrot signal flag tattoos.” Willa makes a horrified face and Taylor laughs. “I know, right? And at the time, all I could think about was how the tattoos would bind you and me together forever, which was unthinkably terrible. No offense.”

“No, I understand.”

“But we are bound together,” Taylor says. “By Finley, by this trip . . . by a freakin’ hurricane.”

“Do you want to get a tattoo?”

“What? Now?”

“I mean, think about it. If we can survive a hurricane, we can survive anything . . . even losing Finley,” Willa says. “The tattoo will be a permanent reminder that there’s someone else out there in the world who knows how those things feel. That you’re not alone.”

Taylor smiles as Willa throws her own words back at her, then gives her a hug. “I hate you.”

“I know.”

“Let’s go get a tattoo.”`

They turn back toward Sweet Misery, where the woman is still watering her flower boxes. Willa notices that she’s wearing at least a dozen bangles on her right arm. Like a warrior’s gauntlet of silver. Like armor.

“I had a feeling you might be back,” the woman says as they climb the stairs. “Come on in.”

Bells jingle on the front door handle as they step into a living room that’s been converted to a waiting room, with a brown leather couch dotted with a rainbow of furry throw pillows, a cash register counter filled with body jewelry, and a coffee table swallowed up by tattoo magazines. The woman turns around, her patchouli scent enveloping them, making Willa’s nose twitch. “I’m Ellen. How can I help you, my darlings?”

“We’re interested in getting tattoos,” Taylor says.

“Will you need some time to look at the flash?” Ellen asks. “Or maybe you have a design in mind.”

“We were in northern Georgia aboard a twenty-five-foot sailboat when Hurricane Dorian hit,” Willa says. “So we’re thinking something hurricane related, but we’re not really sure what.”

“I’ve had clients who’ve gotten hurricane vectors or even the colored radar imaging,” Ellen says. “So, I suppose the next question is what you want the tattoo to convey. Do you want a conversation piece? Or something more personal.”

“Personal,” Taylor says quickly. “A reminder that we survived.”

“A moment in time.” Ellen cocks her head and touches her fingertips to her lips. She’s wearing an enormous silver skull on her index finger. She reminds Willa of a pirate. “Or a place.”

Her words spark an idea in Willa’s mind. “What about the coordinates of Sapelo Island?”

Ellen nods. “Coordinates are popular, but they can be very personal.”

“Are they very expensive?” Willa asks, only just realizing that they’re going to have to pay for the tattoos.