He looks nonplussed, like I knew he would. “Old record players can be funny sometimes. Isn’t it possible that it wasn’t fully turned off and just somehow reset to start playing?”

“That’s a stretch, but regardless, it was playing a different record than the one I was listening to before bed.”

“So you hadn’t been listening to the Beatles before turning it off?”

I go to shake my head, then stop. “Wait a minute. How do you know what record was playing when I came down?” I suddenly have this gross feeling that I may have been the butt of a very mean practical joke.

“You kept talking about the Beatles in your sleep this morning, so I just assumed.” He looks away from me to put his mug on the bedside table. Then he pushes the covers off my legs and starts very gently running his hand up and down my thigh. “Did you have some drinks before bed? Is it possible that you forgot what album you put on last?”

I swat his hand away. “No, I actually didn’t. I went to bed early, sober, and was totally aware of what was going on.”

He puts his hand back on my leg. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’m just trying to think of all angles here.”

I lean forward. “And do you know what song it was playing?” He shakes his head. “ ‘Blackbird.’ ”

He winces. “That’s a bit creepy, isn’t it?”

I slap his hand. “Yes!”

“Could the album have been under the one you were playing and you put it away, not even realizing you left the Beatles one on the record player?”

I have to actually stop and think about that possibility. “I don’t think so. I played a couple of records last night, and I would have noticed if that one was still on the player.”

“Probably.”

“Anyway,” I say, in an attempt to get to the main part of the story, “after the record player woke me, I was checking to see if the doors were locked, and I saw a person out the window running into the woods. So I followed them—”

“Hold on,” he says loudly. “You saw some stranger on the island and you went after them? That’s incredibly stupid, June. And dangerous.”

“I took a fire poker with me,” I explain.

“June,” he practically yells. “A fire poker does not make you safe. Staying inside with the doors locked makes you safe. Calling the police makes you safe.”

I motion for him to calm down. “I did call the police. After.” He rolls his eyes and releases an exasperated sigh. “The person had a boat, one of those tin tippy kinds. They left it on the other side of the island, and that’s how they got away. I didn’t get to them in time, but—”

“In time for what, June? To beat them with a fire poker?”