They’re old enough to remember Roxy, of course. But that can come later. For now, I walk away as they drive off, wondering what they might know, wishing I could climb into their heads, desperate to see how this whole thing will play out.

The most interesting part of the island, by far, is the main street. Not interesting in a good way, necessarily. But compared to the rest of the developed land the main street is certainly the most stimulating to look at and exemplifies what Sandown is. Shops full of souvenirs and tack, painted seashells and shot glasses and cheap, sweatshop hoodies hanging in the windows. Intermittent clusters of people buzz in and out of the shops that are open, which is probably only every third one. There’s some quiet chatter from the patio of a bar further up the road. Without a meaningful crowd here, though, it all feels a bit pointless. Like a movie set, like none of it’s real, like you could swing open any one of these doors and there’d be nothing but a grey void to fall into. It isn’t pretty, really. The buildings are A-frames, blue and grey and red, hollow, seaside Americana. What did Roxy think walking down these streets? Looking at this every day might make anyone hate humanity. Living in a place that’s meant for everyone except you, and not just that – a visiting place, a nothing place, cultureless and created to please only the passers-by, boarded up for two-thirds of the year. A cardboard house with curbside appeal. A bubble in the world. It must have looked not unlike this when Roxy was here. I don’t envy her.

The carnival pier stretches down maybe the length of a football field; there’s an empty carousel, a couple of boardwalk games, a tall Ferris wheel perched at its culmination. Though access is blocked by a wooden barrier as it doesn’t open officially until next weekend.

Rules are important, sure. Signs too. Some are more important than others.

I hop the barrier and traipse along the boardwalk. Certainly something eerie about it. Empty carnival games, milk jugs and balloon darts and basketball hoops, all rigged, no doubt, some boarded, some not, rows of prizes left out in the open, thoroughly unconcerned by theft.

Further up, there’re stone steps leading down to the shoreline.

I tread on to the stretch of rocky beach punctuated by an unlit firepit, pebbles clicking under my feet, clumps of seagrass bursting from below every few paces. Seagulls yap above me. A gust of wind ricochets over the surface of the ocean and envelops me, makes me aware of the sweat trickling down the canyon that marks the direct middle of my chest. I breathe in, out, salt, brine.