She knew a taxi was extravagant, but she wasn’t ready to drive the windy roads on the wrong side, and she planned on staying in the small town until she decided what to do next. No need for a car . . . yet. Her destination was only an hour away, but by the third curve in the road, Colleen’s head lolled to the side and she was fast asleep. She awoke as the driver lurched to a stop and with a laugh asked, “You’d be liking the pub this early on a Tuesday morning?”

Colleen sat upright and rubbed her eyes, confused for only a moment as she readjusted both her gaze and her thoughts. Outside the window was a view as stunning as any she’d ever seen—Galway Bay glinting in the sun. She opened the door and stepped out, wondering vaguely if she were dreaming.

Here was a land she’d only imagined or seen in photos, a land so green and a sea so blue and a marsh so lush that it seemed to be an animated movie formed of hyper colors and sounds. Gulls cried, a donkey brayed and the bay water splashed and swished on craggy granite boulders that lined a boggy area so bright green it was almost neon. She knew it would take days, maybe weeks, for her eyes to see all there was, to absorb and understand the landscape. This was her geography, a place where she’d been conceived in love and born in trauma. This was the place of herself.

The taxi driver climbed out of the car and stood next to her. “You okay, miss?”

“I don’t know that I’ve ever been better.” She turned to take in the pub behind her, a simple facade next to a restaurant facing the bay.

“Are you sure you’re wanting to be dropped off at O’Shea’s? It doesn’t open until six tonight.”

Colleen glanced back at the driver, and his smile was concerned. “I’m staying only a couple doors down from here. I’ll walk when I’m ready. I just wanted to see it straightaway.”

He pointed at her cast. “You’re sure now? You don’t need help?”

She grinned. “Fit as a fiddle.” She knocked on the cast with the knuckles of her free hand. She quickly paid the man and he drove off.

Colleen’s backpack was flung over her shoulder and her small suitcase sat at her feet like an obedient dog. She didn’t move, but cataloged the details of the pub as though she intended to paint it, needed to memorize it. It was just like the photo she’d seen in the historical office back in Watersend.