This is it – the seam separating the civilization of the island from the wild. Rows and rows of sharp teeth-trees jut from the ground. The depth is impossible; a thousand shades of green and brown, specks of matter floating lazily in the sunbeams that manage to break the thick clusters of leaves. The demarcation between their backyard and the treeline is disconcerting, like something man-made masquerading as natural. Moving closer, I see the whole thing is wrapped with a barbed-wire fence, signs hung against it at regular intervals read: DANGER. TRESPASSING IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED. RISK OF INJURY. The signs are worn and rusted, shrivelling at the edges, some with holes decayed straight through like caterpillar-gnawed leaves. I feel sickly suddenly and I’m sure it’s from a combination of exhaustion and a biological clock run entirely awry but there’s something about the close proximity of the trees, unmoving but coursing with life all the same, that makes me want to lie down again. I’ve never liked the woods. Then I swear there are eyes on me.

‘Mona?’

Whip round. It’s Sylvia.

‘Sorry,’ I say, startled. ‘I was just looking around.’

‘Not much to see back there,’ she says and chuckles a little to herself. She peels a pair of gardening gloves from her hands.

I press my palm flat against the side of my head, still disorientated. ‘No kidding. Didn’t mean to snoop.’

‘Not at all. Your room was ready a while ago but I didn’t want to wake you. Feel better?’

A breeze somersaults past: sea, earth, sun. Ought to be comforting. I realize I never actually admitted to my exhaustion; she just knew. ‘Yeah, actually. Thanks for letting me crash.’

Sylvia reveals a key from her overall pocket and hands it to me. The building I’m staying in, she says, is called Seiburt House.

‘Is this your first year here, then?’

I nod. ‘Going to try and get my bearings today.’

‘Are you from in-state?’

‘No – Indiana.’

‘Oh, gosh. What inspired the trek?’

‘I guess I felt like I needed to … get away from things? For a bit, anyway.’

Sylvia laughs. ‘You’re not old enough yet to be so world-weary.’ The statement’s not derisive, or patronizing, I don’t think; I get the sense she understands. ‘Do you want me to show you where the dorms are? I don’t mind taking you – they’re just back past the neck.’

‘Don’t worry, I don’t want to take up any more of your day.’ The heat, I notice, almost makes my voice sound different from normal, heavy on the air with a blurred, dull lowness.

‘Not at all. And days I give freely, anyway. Nights less so.’