If he’s only teasing, it’s lost on me. ‘It is.’ And I smile like I’m smiling in the photo, baring teeth like an angry chimp, unmistakable because of the gaps between them and the way my canines sit elevated in my gums. Dad used to joke that he’d always be able to identify me by my teeth – makes more sense upon the discovery that he’s a sick-minded state counsel – but then stopped once that joke was no longer funny. Less funny after we could only wish there was a Celeste to identify. Less funny after I started dodging the nannies and driving out into Indianapolis late at night aged fifteen-and-a-half with only my temporary licence, nowhere to go and nothing to do except make trouble. This was always enough to bring Dad home, at least for a bit.

Anyway, I never got my teeth fixed.

‘Your hair’s different.’

This is correct. My licence says it’s blonde; in the photo it’s down to my elbows. Now it’s dark brown and barely brushes my chin, with bangs accidentally cut about an inch too short. The dye is so fresh it’s still bleeding on to my clothes, and I keep reaching for phantom lengths to pick through. I shrug.

The ferry master, whose badge tells me his name is Frank, tires of the inspection and hands me a laminated ticket from his moneybox. ‘Well, stick that on your dash and you’re good to go, I guess. Still ain’t leaving till nine.’

‘I know. That’s fine.’

‘All right.’ He gives my ID one last quizzical look then returns it. ‘I like it better blonde.’

So did Dad, which was unusual, as he never expresses any opinion towards me about anything. ‘You know what,’ I say, ‘I do too.’

I accelerate before he can respond, down the gentle slope and through the ferry’s yawning gates. Forward until my bumper nearly dings the far railing. Park and stall my engine. Here, I have an uninterrupted view of the journey: two miles of sea that will take a little less than a half-hour to traverse, if the website is right – which it ought to be, given this same trip has been taken thousands and thousands of times.

It’s a straight shot, direct to her.

I might as well be eye-locked with Pandora’s box and the urge to dig my fingernails under the lid and pull is already unbearable.

I swear my phone buzzes again but there’s nothing when I check, so I slide the pamphlet off my dash. The cover bears a group of grinning college-age kids in polos and bandanas and sunglasses, punctuated by a bubble-font title: ‘Welcome, Seasonals!’