The view had distracted me and only now do I notice the smattering of people who have joined me on the top deck. A twenty-something couple slathers sunscreen on to each other; a group of middle-aged women in floppy sunhats cackle at something, maybe already sloshed; a family with young kids sits within the shade of the canopy. No one that looks like a Seasonal, as far as I can see. This is good; there’s power in being the first.

From above, the island of Sandown Bay looks a bit like a misshapen person. This designation is understandable if not hugely accurate, but if someone were to point it out to you, you might say, Oh yes, that does look like a person, and Louisiana is a boot, and maybe everything actually looks like something else. All of us in a constant state of forced pareidolia, where if you stare at a mass of rustling leaves for long enough you might find a face; where if you stare at a Sandown Bay pamphlet long enough with its sort of vague, saturated pleasantness, you might see yourself there too.

The main ferry dock is situated on the southern half – that’s the part that looks like a head. Then there’s this long isthmus that stretches off, which is why one might say ‘misshapen’ – it’s a neck, sure, but ghoulish, but too long and thin to be human. Then two stout, branching cliffsides for arms, and around mid-torso is where the woods begin and stretch and stretch and stretch.

I need to know all this because there can’t be a learning curve, because anything could be a clue; knowing anything could unlock a door. Anywhere could hide answers. Anyone could hide bones.

I lean forward again, let the fear of it burn my ears to red; there’s something pleasurable about the thin line of pain digging underneath my ribs from the rail, about the beads of sweat prickling my forehead, born to steamed in barely a second.

Roxy’s name tumbles around in my head. ‘Glass Daughter’ slips past my lips without my thinking about it; barely a hum, only the notes, sound overpowered by the whirr of the ferry but the song is there and living.

Eyes stare

Oh, when a million eyes stare

Who is the woman they see there?

What of the life spread on display?