Bonnie’s regret on this summer day of a planned picnic in the woods on Yarkie’s High Ridge was that Elizabeth could not join her. The captain had celebrated his seventy-­fifth birthday too enthusiastically the night before, and was resting a bruised toe and frayed temper. Elizabeth had insisted that Bonnie take the lunch basket, and—though there was nothing to be saved from on the island—the captain’s dog, Sharky. The small, frisky animal was as brave as his breed was nondescript. Two years before, when an imprudent youngster plunged from the captain’s fishing boat for an unscheduled swim, it was Sharky who had cata­pulted into the water to savage the Mako shark attracted by the boy’s splashing. It was the day the dog’s name was changed from Pooch.

“Just stay on the path,” Elizabeth told Bonnie as she started her off at the edge of the Yarkie woods. “Don’t go past the pine grove. You’ll recognize it by a little waterfall there and the picnic tables. The path beyond goes to the town dump. You don’t want that one.”

“No way,” Bonnie agreed, laughing. Dumps were what she was spending her life leaving behind.

Bonnie found the grove a sylvan setting out of a Maxfield Parrish painting. The morning sun was slatting down between high tree branches, striping golden bars on a carpet of leaves and pine needles inches thick. The air’s freshness seemed almost tangible to Bonnie, as if she could rub it like a lotion between her palms and smooth it over her body. Being alone, she considered stripping, but thought it would be imprudent in case anyone else appeared.

As she spread her blanket, the woman noticed that the dog was sniffing nervously where an opening in the trees led out of the circle of the grove. That was the way to the dump, she remembered. Sharky’s sharp nose was probably picking up the odor. Smiling, Bonnie considered this was one time it was better to have duller senses. Let Sharky romp his own way.