After eight hours on three different busses, Trevor boarded the ferry at Woods Hole. The long, low boom of the horn startled him, and he went up onto the deck to watch the boat push off. Every brunette was Claudia. It was all a big misunderstanding. It was dark when they docked in a little town with twinkly lights and sailboats floating along the shore. Should he show up unannounced? Trevor stood beneath an overhang at the terminal and watched people get into cars; some lined up for a bus. He was nervous so he started walking uphill, toward the lights. The big grocery store was still open but employees were starting to bring bags of garbage out to the parking lot. He heard the crash of glass bottles together and it reminded him of the summer after junior year when he worked making sandwiches at a deli near City Hall. On the shifts when he helped close, they’d blast music and mop, and then he’d take the trash out to the alley where homeless people sometimes bedded down. Once he’d startled a man digging through the dumpster. The man was squatting precariously along the edge of the giant bin and when Trevor kicked the back door open he fell in. Oh, shit! Trevor said. Are you okay? He stepped on an overturned milk crate and looked down at the mass of bags, some open and leaking; rotting sandwich meat; coffee grounds; cartons of half-and-half; slimy ribbons of shredded lettuce. The man was face down and for a moment Trevor thought maybe he was dead. Are you okay? he repeated. After a few seconds, the man stirred; he tried to bring his knees beneath him and press his arms to push himself up, but the bags were shifting and unsolid, like the colored ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese. A ball pit of stinking, filthy garbage. Trevor extended his arm to the man. His face was brown and deeply lined. He wore a thin, plaid, button-up shirt with pointed Western-style pocket flourishes. They locked hand-over-forearm and the man climbed out. He was three times Trevor’s age, at least, but probably six inches shorter. Gracias, he said, and before Trevor could think to ask if he wanted a sandwich, the man hurried off. Trevor wondered how long the man had lived in Canton. How far from home had he traveled to end up falling into a garbage dumpster? Would he have left that place if he’d known? Would Trevor have left Canton if he’d known he’d end up sneaking onto an island off Massachusetts in a desperate attempt to apologize to a girl he hardly knew? He wanted to get to Claudia more than he’d ever wanted anything. He felt helpless against the force of the want. And yes, he wanted to touch her. He wanted her to reach for him. To look into his eyes and say, I understand. You were trying to keep me safe. I love you, too. He’d imagined it so many times it felt like it was possible. He walked back down the hill to the bus stop, but the sign said he’d missed the last shuttle of the night. According to the map on his phone it would take two-and-a-half hours to walk to her house.