As a consequence of the hours spent digitally cataloguing the island, I’m struck by the celebrity of the place; this is the same dock I’d virtually walked along, the same oaks lining the run-up, the same covered queue, the same hill reaching up and on to the first main road. I drive underneath a sign hung on parallel lamp posts that reads WELCOME, SEASONALS!, draped with multicoloured bunting.

The pamphlet says to register at the bicycle and golf-cart rental desk so that’s where I head; it takes all of ten seconds to find it, as it’s the first thing there is to look at after traversing the hill. Most visitors leave their cars on the mainland and get around on the island via bike or golf cart so the placement makes sense.

I park in the lot surrounding the shed-like structure and get out, footsteps crunchy on the gravel. The air is an assaulting stink of gasoline and boiling leather seats and sunscreen.

There’s movement from a shape behind the counter of the desk, but with the sun beating in my eyes, I can’t make out from what; it’s only when I’m five steps away that the shape becomes a boy. He hasn’t heard me yet so I observe. Even though he’s crouched with his back turned, fiddling with something in a box, the disproportions of his body are obvious: he’s all limb, too long, too thin. When he turns, I realize this is probably due to a recent growth spurt – I don’t think he’s older than fifteen, full cheeks peeking from under tousled reddish hair. And especially not with the seemingly abject fear he projects when he sees me, like I’m an apparition. He springs backwards and nearly falls ass-first into the box, but anchors himself with a hand on the wall. I feel as if I’ve poked a worm that’s promptly wound itself into an airtight pellet.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.’

The kid collects himself with a quick squeeze of his eyes but he’s still hunching, either not realizing his own height or distinctly realizing and wishing he didn’t take up so much space. The sharps of his shoulders are prevalent even through his blue polo shirt. ‘I … It’s OK,’ he says in a voice that can’t quite decide its pitch, peaky and only half-deepened. ‘C-can I help you?’

Obviously he’s nervous, but the way his words come out in pieces doesn’t sound like strictly nerves. ‘I’m a Seasonal. I need to check in.’

This inspires another bout of anxiety. ‘M-Mom!’ he yells, directing the call towards the barely open door that leads further inside the stand. He turns back to me and says, ‘Registration doesn’t start until t … t-tomorrow.’