Escape Your Life

by I.J. Miller

        “Why don’t you answer when I call you at home?” asked the patient, a boy still in college.

        Jonathan sat on a swivel chair in his small office tucked into a modest, downtown Manhattan building. Mid-thirties, dark hair thinning, blank expression as he stared at the boy over a half-empty glass of water resting on a desk calendar reading JANUARY, 2020.

        “When I call you at home,” continued the patient, “I’m usually feeling suicidal.”

        Jonathan looked down at the street below. He saw a toddler let go of a balloon that floated aimlessly up into the murky New York sky.

        That night, Jonathan was in bed, but not yet asleep. His cell phone rang. The patient’s name popped up. Jonathan answered, “Hello.”

        A loud gunshot. Then the phone went dead. Jonathan closed his eyes, engulfed by a deep, melancholic fatigue. A text dinged his phone:

ESCAPE YOUR LIFE. Winter rental on isolated island off east end coast. No internet. No cell service. No tv. No cars.

*  *  *

        Sarah banged on the door of her parents’ Queens, NY apartment. Her brown hair was wild, unkempt. She breathed heavily. Her mother answered, head turned slightly to the side. But Sarah saw the bruised cheek.

        “He hit you?” she blurted.

        Her mother hustled her inside. “He’s drinking.”

        “Why do you stay with that piece of shit?”

        “Shh, that’ll only make it worse.”

        Her father emerged from the master bedroom, early 60s, potbelly, bald, drunk. Mother and daughter retreated to the living room, occupied by the same drab, heavy-wood furniture from Sarah’s childhood, and dropped to a saggy couch.

        He wobbled to a hall closet, pulled out a hunting bow and arrow. He sat on a chair opposite them. The mother began crying and Sarah pulled her close.

        “I promise I won’t call the police,” said the mother. “I apologize for calling Sarah.”

        He drunkenly loaded an arrow, pointed the bow at them. Sarah trembled now.

        He let go and the arrow, feebly, dropped to the ground.

        “I don’t have a daughter.” He stumbled back to the bedroom.

        Later, after her mother assured her he was asleep and in the morning it would be forgotten, Sarah dragged herself up five floors to her apartment in Brooklyn. She staggered to her bedroom, opened the door. Her naked lover popped up in bed, another naked woman beside her.

        “Oh, my god!” stammered the lover. “I thought you were staying at your mother’s all night.”

        Sarah exited, closed the door behind her, slinked to the floor. A text dinged her phone:

ESCAPE YOUR LIFE. Winter rental on isolated island off east end coast. No internet. No cell service. No tv. No cars.

*  *  *

        Jonathan stood at the front of the small boat ferrying him across the Long Island Sound, a suitcase on wheels by his side. He stared at the small island looming ahead of him.

        Sarah stood at the back of the boat, knapsack slung over her shoulders, canvas duffel bag at her feet. She stared at the East End coastline fading behind her.

        Thick coats bundled them against the chilly, midday winter wind whipping across the boat’s deck.

        The driver soon pulled up to the island’s battered wood dock. Sarah exited. Followed by Jonathan. Both with their baggage. They were surprised they got off together. They walked to shore. The boat pulled out. A woman in her 40s was there to meet them. Two old bicycles, both with heavy thick wheels and rusted frames, were propped next to her, one single bike, the other a tandem, each with large metal baskets attached above the back wheels. A broad colorful scarf tied down her auburn hair. She wore large sunglasses, but took them off as she greeted them.

        “I’m Catherine. Welcome.”

        They weren’t sure who she was addressing.

        “You must be Sarah. You must be Jonathan.”

        They seemed more confused.

        “You both inquired about the winter rental.”

        What?

        They strapped their gear to the bicycles. Catherine boarded the single, which left the tandem for them.

        “Front or back?” asked Jonathan.

        “Front,” answered Sarah.

        They followed Catherine along a dirt road, pedaling in unison. Occasional pine trees provided green to their view, but mostly they were surrounded by grey forest, thick with leafless branches. No street or road signs. No tire tracks. So silent they could hear the bay water brush the shore, the birds squawking over the squeak of their bicycles.

        Catherine turned off the dirt road onto a narrower rough path that took them deep into the woods. At the end of the path was one small house. They parked the bikes, left the gear, followed Catherine. She opened the unlocked door. “As advertised.”

        Jonathan and Sarah motioned awkwardly for the other to go in. Finally, Jonathan entered, followed by Sarah.

        The cottage hadn’t budged since the 70s. Small living room flowing into a small dining room flowing into a small kitchen. There was a dirty fireplace, covered by a worn oil painting of the fireplace. On a table was a rotary phone, an old turntable, and a box of vinyl albums in frayed covers. Dusty books were shelved on the fireplace mantle. A broken clock hung on the living room wall.

        In the kitchen was a pantry. Catherine opened it. Floor to ceiling canned and dried food.

        “Enough to last you four months. Strictly a winter rental.”

        Lastly, they edged towards a short hallway leading to three doors. Catherine opened all three: a small bathroom and two small bedrooms.

        “I’ll take it,” said Jonathan and Sarah at the exact same time.

        They looked at each other, unable to hide their disappointment.

        “Three options,” said Catherine. “Sarah gets it. Jonathan gets it. Or you both share.”

        Their eyes locked.

        “You don’t have to decide now,” continued Catherine. “There’s only one ferry in and it’s already out. Take a day to decide. No lease. As long as I see four grand in the lockbox at the dock tomorrow, I’ll consider the place rented. To whomever, whatever.”

        They continued to stare.

        Jonathan said, “Worse come to worst we flip a coin.”

        They retrieved their baggage from the bikes, bid Catherine farewell, and retreated to separate bedrooms.


        Later that night, Jonathan emerged from his room, groggy after a long nap. Sarah sat at the small table in the kitchen, room for just two chairs, and finished pasta she had prepared.

        “There’s more spaghetti in the colander,” she said.

        “Thanks.” Jonathan prepared a plate, sat in the empty chair, realized his smartphone was in his back pocket. He took it out, placed it on the table. “Won’t be needing this for a while.” Sarah stared at him. “That is, if . . . ”

        “I was living with someone I don’t want to go back to.”

        “Cutting the cost in half would make a difference.”

        “It would have to remain a non-sexist house.”

        “I always put the toilet seat down after I pee.”

        Sarah smirked. “I guess it’s absurd to sum up a whole series of attitudes, a whole way of living with one statement, hoping everything will be worked out and understood.”

        The next morning, they got on the tandem bike, Sarah still in front, pedaled down the rough path to the dirt road, made their way to the lockbox by the dock. They had been texted before they left home to bring cash. Each stuffed $2,000 of it through the slot.

        “Do you think there’s anyone else on this island?” asked Jonathan. “Do you think Catherine lives here?”

        “I meant to ask.”

        “There must be a town somewhere that opens in the summer.”

        They headed back to the dirt road. Sarah shifted into some hard pedaling, enjoying the speed, the wind through her hair. Jonathan struggled to keep up. The freedom of being out here, alone, well almost, surged through Sarah’s body and she was a kid again, arms out to the side, lungs heaving as she shouted, “Wheeeee!”

        A medium sized, short haired, brown, terrier type dog darted from the woods, across the road. Sarah immediately grabbed the handlebars and tried to steer away, but the front tire nicked the dog’s back leg and he let out a squeal. They pulled over. Hustled back on foot. Found the dog by the side of the road, panting heavily, blood by the back leg. Jonathan kneeled down, lightly touched the leg.

        “I don’t think it’s broken,” he said.

        “I hate this.”

        “I don’t see a collar.”

        “I’m not meant to be carefree.”

        “We should probably bandage him back at the house.”

        “I hate seeing dead animals. I hate killing animals. I hate people who do!”

        “Sarah!” She returned to the moment. “Let’s bike back. I’ll carry him.”

        As they pedaled, buzz from an engine reverberated above them. Sarah remained laser-focused on the road. Jonathan, blood on his pants, the dog snuggled against his chest, looked up and saw a small, twin propeller plane fly overhead.

        In their living room, Sarah found an old blanket in the closet, laid it out on the rug. Jonathan placed the dog on his side. The canine continued to pant, but remained still. There was a faded box of gauze and a brown crusty bottle of peroxide in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Jonathan cleaned the wound and gently bandaged the dog’s leg.

        “You have good healing instincts,” said Sarah.

        “I don’t know if my patients believe that.”

        “You’re a doctor?”

        “Therapist.”

        Sarah stared anxiously at the dog.

        Jonathan said, “It could easily have been me if I was riding up front.”

        “Thanks for being the calm one.”

        “He’ll be fine in a few days.”

        “We’ll let him outside when he’s ready. If he wants to go home, fine. If he wants to stay—”

        “He’s really cute.”

        The dog looked up at them with big brown puppy eyes.

        “And brave,” added Sarah.

        Later, Jonathan prepared dinner while Sarah offered to make a fire. He understood she was a vegetarian. Not that meat was available. Rice started to boil. It took him a moment to decipher how to open the bean can with the handheld, metal opener.

        Sarah, expertly, shaped a small pile of kindling in the fireplace, lit it with wood matches she found, nurtured it with strong breaths, added dry logs she had discovered in the back, and soon had a roaring fire going. Jonathan placed two plates of rice and beans on the dining room table, gave a small bowlful to the dog lying near the flames.

        “Very impressed with this fire,” said Jonathan. “I’d be freezing to death.”

        “Tomorrow we’ll chop more wood. There’s an axe and block out back.”

        They ate at the table.

        “A whole day without answering a text or email,” sighed Jonathan. “Paradise.”

        “I’m happily on withdrawal from the news.”

        “What did you do in the real world?”

        “I lived in an all-women’s house in Brooklyn. Devoted most of my time to feminist causes.”

        “Glad I mentioned the toilet seat.”

        The dog looked up from his bowl.

        “We could name him,” said Jonathan.

        “How about Dworkin?”

        “You’re kidding.”

        “After Andrea Dworkin. Author of Pornography: Men Possessing Women.”

        “Here, Dworkin. Want a treat, Dworkin? I don’t think so.”

        “Do you play poker?” asked Sarah.

        “I’ve dabbled.”

        “There’s a deck by the turntable. Winner gets to name the dog.”

        Dinner done, dishes washed, dog asleep, fire still ablaze thanks to Sarah, Joni Mitchell’s Court and Spark playing on the turntable, they sat in their same chairs and went at it with an old deck of cards and toothpicks used as chips. The cards and toothpicks flew back and forth. Jonathan neglected to tell her he had played regularly in college. Until finally, they were both all-in with their complete pile of toothpicks. Jonathan proudly laid down three kings.

        “Ha!” declared Sarah. She laid down her cards. “Three queens!”

        She reached for the toothpicks, looked over at the dog. “Want a treat, Dworkin?”

        “What are you doing?” asked Jonathan.

        “Three queens beat three kings.”

        “Let me go out on the limb here and guess you learned to play poker at your house in Brooklyn.”

        “So what?”

        “If we were anywhere else I’d Google poker to prove that three kings beat three queens.”

        “Didn’t we agree this would be a non-sexist house?”

        She gathered the toothpicks into a pile in front of her, collected the cards, got up to prepare for bed. Later, Sarah came out of the bathroom, wearing flannel pajamas. Jonathan, in tee shirt and gym shorts, towel slung over his shoulder, stood in the hallway, waiting to go in.

        He said, “You know your eyes sparkle when you’re outraged.”

        “You’ve probably guessed, but just to confirm. I’m a lesbian.”

        She closed the bedroom door behind her.


        The next morning, breakfast was powdered milk and cereal. While Jonathan ate, Sarah came into the kitchen and said, “I was able to carry Dworkin outside for his business. He was a good boy.”

        “I was thinking of biking in the other direction past the dock. Do you want to come?”

        “No.”

        “Okay.”

        “I’ll be setting up a hydroponics garden. Uses nutrients to grow stuff in water rather than soil. I need fresh vegetables and fruit.”

        “Do you need my help?”

        “No.”

        She went back to her room.

        Later, while Jonathan labored to solo-bike the tandem out to the dirt road, he wondered if Sarah was annoyed with him, somehow still put off by his three kings declaration. He didn’t need that right now. He needed peace. He needed sleep. He needed to get back into shape. He needed to be whole again.

        While Sarah dug out the hydroponics kit from her duffel bag, she wondered if Jonathan would fully respect her choices and privacy. Any guy she had ever been friends with, sooner or later, unless he was gay, had made a move. Why she no longer had any straight guy friends. A flirtatious look had coupled his comment about her eyes. It made her anxious. But she had nothing to go back to.

        Jonathan pedaled hard as he passed the dock and continued along the dirt road. At the top of a hill, the road ended. Just boulders and bushes, not sure if at one time the road went all the way through. He parked the bike, out of breath. He still had not passed any tire tracks. He stared at the horizon: a wide expanse of nothing, just the icy blue Long Island Sound and a flat fork of land in the distance. He walked to a picnic bench partially covered by an overgrown bush. Scratched into the top were the initials CM & DM.

        Sarah laid out the hydroponics stuff on the dining room table: grow light, nutrients, seeds, clay pebbles, rapid rooter cubes, PH tester and balancer. Dworkin looked at her from the living room floor. He seemed grateful to be here. Or maybe wanted a pet. Or maybe was just hungry. Where did he come from? No collar. Just wandering around the woods. He was skinny but not emaciated. Was someone missing him? Did he get lost last summer, and the tourists went home without him? She shouldn’t have named him. It will make it harder if he leaves after he walks again. It was Jonathan’s idea, but he was just a little too cocky when she had suggested Dworkin. Not necessarily the best name, but she needed to show him she would not be intimidated.

        Jonathan started his trip back just when the propeller plane flew overhead, probably at the same time as yesterday. On a hunch, he stopped at the lockbox by the dock. With a stick he poked around inside. The money was still there! Unless there was a rental somewhere else. Unless Catherine hadn’t picked it up. Unless she didn’t live on the island and the ferry stopped running. Was that even a ferry?

        There was something reassuring and unsettling about, possibly, being the only ones on the island.


        The thunderstorm that night started just before midnight and began with bulletlike raindrops against the roof, followed by heavy wind pounding the walls, then huge streaks of lightning flashing through the windows, erupting into loud blasts of thunder that caused Dworkin to yelp in the living room. Jonathan jumped out of bed, in gym shorts and tee shirt, went in to calm the dog. It was freezing. He tried to make a fire using the kindling, wood, and matches, seemingly the way Sarah had, but it was mostly smoke.

        A loud, metallic sound wailed from the roof, like a cry for help, and Sarah stumbled out of her room, same flannel PJs, hair wild, face bloated and splotchy, eyes red.

        “What the fuck is that?” she asked.

        “There’s an old, rusted weathervane on the roof. Maybe the wind caused it to turn.”

        She noticed his feeble attempt to build a fire and soon got a blaze going in under twenty seconds. Jonathan nodded his approval and said, “No one’s sleeping tonight.”

        “I don’t want to sleep.”

        Jonathan set up couch and chair cushions on the floor for both of them, got two blankets from a closet, laid down next to Dworkin. Sarah took a blanket, also laid down, the dog between them.

        “Why not?” asked Jonathan.

        “Why not what?”

        “Why don’t you want to sleep?”

        “Are you going to analyze me?”

        “Just concerned.”

        Sarah took a deep breath. He could tell she was about to say something she would not reveal at any other time or place. “I dream of killing my father.”

        Jonathan took his own deep breath. He was a better listener than talker.

        She broke the silence with, “Say something, please. I don’t want to fall back asleep. It’ll make me less scared.”

        “I don’t want you to think I’m analyzing.”

        “Tell me why you ended up here. There was so much pain in your face that first day.”

        “Both of us.”

        Jonathan poked the fire, then began. “I lost any real picture of the future. Life always had logical next steps: college, grad school, private practice, marriage, kids. But what I wanted growing up, is not what I want now. But I have no new pictures. And it scares me. Work became connected to paying bills. I was losing empathy. My last relationship ended more than a year ago after my girlfriend had an abortion I hoped she didn’t have. A patient staged a phony suicide on the phone. I had to get away. I had to escape my life.”

        Sarah propped up on an elbow. “I don’t get scared in my dreams because I’m about to do violence, but because whenever it becomes time I can’t follow through.” She laid back down. “My father’s a sadistic alcoholic who beat me. And my mother to this day. She’s terrorized but can’t leave. He basically disowned me once I came out. It’s not just him, but maybe because of him, I’ve never resolved my fear of men.”

        “You needn’t be afraid of me.”

        “It’s not just overt threats of violence that scare me. It’s a guy handing me change in the store calling me honey while his finger lingers across my palm. The way a man looks at me on the street as if I’m on display. Changing the oil in my friend’s car and some random stranger comes over with his advice, sure I’m about to fuck up. And I get mad, wanting to shout and scream, seeing myself become my father—same potbelly, same bald head—only I don’t say anything. Too fucking scared that if a real confrontation started, they—all men—could go the violent limit, punch the face, pull the trigger, shoot the arrow, while I’m not sure I can.”

        “Sounds like your women’s house was just the right place.”

        “Then I caught my lover—the one who said she valued honesty above all else—in bed with another woman, again, and I, too, had to escape my life.”

        A huge gust of wind barreled against the house, rattling dishes in the kitchen, billowing smoke back down the fireplace. Sarah covered her face with a blanket, muttered, “When I’m not alone I don’t dream.”

        A blast of lightning struck outside and Jonathan looked towards the window, the backyard illuminated as bright as day, and thought he saw a young man standing at the window, wearing a dark fedora. Then thunder cracked and the image disappeared.

        He whispered, “We’re not alone.”


        The next morning, Jonathan carried Dworkin to the backyard to do his business, then laid him gently on the blanket Sarah had spread out. They were in an open dirt space that housed a tree stump chopping block, long heavy axe, and a small locked shed. Jonathan cleaned up the many branches and twigs blown about by the storm. Sarah gathered broken tree limbs to chop. He did not tell her what he had seen. He needed to be sure. It was a crazy night with dark images being blown about in front of a fire, during the height of the storm. He hadn’t wanted to scare her more than she already was.

        Jonathan looked up at the rusted weathervane on the roof, shaped like a rooster perched on a metal rod with a sharp arrow at one end. “It was turned around. Faced south when we got here. Now it’s north.”

        Sarah picked up the axe. “I swear I had chopped enough wood yesterday to last the week.”

        They were both struck by movement on the blanket. Dworkin struggled to stand. They watched, transfixed. He got to his feet and sidled over to them with a slight limp, which seemed caused by the bandage on his foot.

        “He’s walking!” declared Sarah.

        He sniffed them, rubbed against Sarah’s leg.

        “And not running away!” added Jonathan.

        They bestowed generous pets over his body, which he enjoyed with greedy pleasure. Then Jonathan removed the bandage, while Sarah ran back into the house and returned waving her cell phone. “There’s still charge left!”

        She snapped a quick pic of Dworkin looking up at her, then had Jonathan take one as she sat on the ground and the dog licked her face. Then she took a selfie of all three of them.

        Dworkin continued to stick close by while Jonathan tidied and Sarah chopped wood. But then the dog caught a scent. He sniffed along the ground, stopped for a full dose under the window facing the living room. They paused their chores and watched. Dworkin made his way to the shed, the sniffing becoming more animated as he stuck his nose by the door bottom.

        “He’s on to something,” said Sarah.

        “You know I checked the lockbox yesterday and I think our money’s still there.”

        “Do you think someone stole some of our firewood?”

        “I saw the initials CM and DM carved into a bench where the road ended past the dock.”

        “Summer couple?”

        “I thought I saw a man with a fedora looking into our window last night during a bolt of lightning.”

        “WHAT?”

        “Convinced myself it was just the spookiness of the storm. I didn’t want to scare you. Why would a guy in a fedora be out in the storm? First thing this morning I looked for footprints under the window. Nothing. There surely would be some in all that mud.”

        Dworkin scratched the dirt under the door.

        “Something’s in there,” said Sarah, as she picked the axe back up and they approached the shed. Dworkin moved aside. The door was locked.

        “Is there even one safe place left in this fucking world?” asked Sarah.

        Jonathan reached for the axe and tapped the back of the blade against the small window in the door. He cleared the broken glass, carefully reached inside, unbolted the lock, walked into the shed. Sarah took a few steps back. Dworkin retreated with her.

        It wasn’t Jonathan who exited first, but the man in the fedora, dressed in an old suit, with wide lapels. Sarah shrieked. Dworkin barked. The man was being carried by Jonathan: a cardboard cutout.

        Jonathan propped him against the shed wall. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, dressed in a suit and tie from the fifties.

        “No wonder there were no footprints under the window,” said Jonathan.

        “But how did a cardboard cutout get from a locked shed to the window . . . without footprints?”

        “Doesn’t make sense.”

        “Wait.” Sarah ran back into the house, quickly returned with an old book. “I was looking through the books on the fireplace mantle yesterday and saw this.”

        Jonathan took it from her. Read the title: The Pacifist, by Dwight Maddox.

        “Turn it over.”

        Jonathan did and there was an author pic identical to the cardboard cutout. He looked at the early pages. “This was published in 1955. Supports pacifism, even in the face of war.” He read the author bio: “Dwight Maddox lives in New York City with his wife, Catherine, and their young son, Dwight Jr.”

        “DM and CM.”

        “But how could Catherine, someone late 40s at the most, be married 65 years ago?”

        “Someone’s messing with us, Jonathan.” She paced. “We’re on some fucking reality show. There’s like ten million people watching right now. Remember that movie The Truman Show with Jim Carrey?”

        “Or maybe we’re being livestreamed on some website?”

        “I thought ESCAPE YOUR LIFE was some sort of mass text, but maybe we were singled out.”

        “Why?”

        “The straight guy and the lesbo,” remarked Sarah. “So amusing. The show’s probably called Escape Your Life. People watch us because they have nothing better to do.”

        Sarah held up the middle finger of both hands and pointed them in all directions, circling in place, giving The Finger to any and all hidden cameras. Jonathan’s eyes circled as well.

        Just then, from deep into the woods behind the house, a loud, blaring siren went off, as if signaling an impending attack.


        Sarah led Dworkin safely back into the house. For the first time, she wished the cottage had door locks. She grabbed a hammer and a kitchen knife, met Jonathan in the backyard, gave him the knife. They entered the back woods, hiked towards the siren wail, which got louder as they pushed deeper past the trees. At some point there might have been a path where they walked, but it was mostly overgrown now with bushes, roots, and tall grass.

        They dead-ended at a large pond. The siren came from the other side, seemingly from a large yellow house just off shore. The foliage was too thick to walk around the pond, but they didn’t need to. To the left, they noticed a rowboat, two oars inside, up along a narrow strip of sand. That was when the siren stopped.

        “I guess we’re not alone,” said Jonathan.

        “Do you want to just grab the next ferry out of here? We can figure out who gets Dworkin. Though I did name him.”

        “I still have a condo I pay the mortgage for. Where would you go?”

        “Any safe place.”

        “Which is?”

        “All right.”

        “Truth is, Sarah, I don’t think there’s any regular ferry.”

        “Let’s take this boat ride.”

        They got in. Sat next to each other. Sarah worked the right-side oar, Jonathan the left. It was a milder day, but the wind picked up as they crossed the pond’s center, felt a deeper sense of the vast, empty Long Island Sound that was out there. The same plane flew overhead and Sarah half-waved.

        At the far shore, they pulled the boat onto to a sandy area, hiked up steps to the back of the yellow house, passed two large sliding glass doors covered with interior curtains. Sarah had slung the hammer into her back pocket. Jonathan kept the knife by his side. At the front, they rang the bell. Catherine answered, wearing a bright yellow sun dress dotted with large red flowers, her hair pinned high on her head.

        “Welcome,” she said. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

        “Only if you promise to tell us what the fuck is going on,” said Sarah. Jonathan discreetly tossed the knife into some adjacent bushes.

        “I promise to answer all of your questions.”

        They entered the living room. Catherine went into the kitchen to prepare tea. They sat on a white couch, ample space separating them. The ceilings were high. On a wall was a framed brightly colored poster from a hippie musical called Hair. They both spotted the yellow rotary phone.

        Catherine returned with three steaming mugs of tea on a tray, placed two in front of them on a coffee table, sat on a soft chair opposite them, rested her mug on an end table.

        “How were you able to message us?” asked Sarah.

        “Did you pick us deliberately?” asked Jonathan.

        “I lied,” said Catherine.

        “About what?” asked Sarah.

        “I can’t answer all of your questions.”

        “Then just tell us why you’re here,” declared Jonathan. “A woman in her 40s, dressed like it’s the 70s, while your husband’s on the other side of the pond, looking younger, dressed like it’s the 50s. Didn’t you get married shortly before The Pacifist came out in 1955? Or are you a daughter that came later?”

        “Nice detective work,” replied Catherine.

        “How about you don’t lie on this one,” said Sarah.

        “That’s not my husband you saw, that’s my son, Dwight Jr., wearing Dwight Sr.’s clothes.”

        “That explains everything!” blurted Jonathan.

        “Have you ever heard of Jim Jones and the Jonestown massacre?”

        Sarah and Jonathan sat back in the couch, suddenly too suspicious to drink the tea.

        “Saw a documentary once,” said Jonathan. “Founded the People’s Temple. No sexism. No racism. In search of utopia. Ended up on Guyana.”

        “Where he built Jonestown, population over 900,” added Catherine.

        “Is that where everyone drank the Kool-Aid and died?” asked Sarah.

        “Not everyone,” said Catherine. “More tea?”

        “More information,” said Jonathan.

        “My husband, Dwight Sr., was an idealist. You saw his book. We followed Jim to Guyana, with Dwight Jr., buying into the Father’s vision of peace, love, and apostolic equality. But Jones got increasingly paranoid. Very few know this, but he did a fake run with the Kool-Aid, supposedly laced with arsenic, to see who was loyal. That was when we formulated our plan to escape, with several others. We made it into the jungle around the same time the congressman was shot. Those who remained, drank the Kool-Aid. Jim Jones shot himself. We made it back to the states, late 70s now. Dwight had been the People’s Temple treasurer and had diverted some funds, and a group of us pooled our savings and bought this island, settled here, also able to escape some loyal stateside followers who vowed revenge on all who had disobeyed Jones’s decree.”

        “So you tried to create your own mini-utopia here?” asked Jonathan.

        “It was quite lovely.”

        “So what happened?” asked Sarah.

        “Dwight Jr. happened,” replied Catherine. “We exposed him to Jones at a very impressionable age and he was a loyal follower. Jones treated him like a son. He never wanted to escape, and we forced the boy to come with us. He played along, but over time he killed everyone with Kool-Aid he had smuggled off Guyana, including his own father.”

        “The cardboard cutout,” said Jonathan.

        “Left over from my husband’s first book tour. It was Dwight Jr. you saw at the window last night. He likes to pretend he’s carrying out Jim Jones’s will as his father. If Jones is the devil, then Dwight Jr. is surely his dark angel.”

        “How did you know he was at our window?” asked Jonathan.

        “I, too, am finding this hard to swallow,” added Sarah. “Pun intended.”

        “Do I look like a woman in her 90s? Does Dwight Jr. look like a man who is almost 70?”

        “Please don’t tell us,” said Sarah, “that we’re going to be recognized for the rest of our lives, wherever we go, as the two people who believed even an iota of this shit.”

        Jonathan and Sarah looked around for hidden cameras.

        “I didn’t believe for sure that Dwight Jr. did the killing,” continued Catherine, “until we were the only two left. I refused to drink anything I didn’t prepare. He strangled me at noon on a weekday in the bed upstairs, then moved to the cottage you’re in, which was Dwight Sr.’s writing studio. It was there, as the specter I became, that I rigged the light switch in his bathroom so he would be electrocuted, which happened at midnight.”

        “So are you a real person or a ghost right now?” asked Jonathan.

        “He and I are earthly one time a day, during the hour of our death.” Catherine anxiously looked at her watch. “The rest of the time we haunt this island as specters, over forty years now with no end in sight, until you both arrived. Everyone who drank the Kool-Aid is dead. We can be murdered again and again, but will only be gone if we drink.”

        “So why don’t you?” asked Sarah, boldly, still not believing a word, but fascinated by the tale this woman weaved.

        “I want to join Dwight Sr., but I owe it to Dwight Jr. to end his madness. It was us who exposed him to the devil.”

        “So you want us to slip Dwight Jr. some tainted Kool-Aid?” asked Jonathan.

        “You’re the only ones around when he’s earthly. Then I’ll take my drink.”

        Sarah stood. “This is all quite fantastical and will make a great movie one day. But I think I speak for my housemate here that we both would simply like to get the fuck off the island.”

        “No boat’s coming back.”

        “This isn’t very nice of you.”

        “I’m desperate.”

        Jonathan stands. “We’ll be on our way.”

        “One more thing,” said Sarah. “Whoever this guy is on the other side of the pond, does he want to hurt us?”

        “He loves the chase. He loves to toy. You can’t imagine how dull eternity is. But eventually he’ll kill you both. If you don’t stop him. Still obsessed with carrying out his devil father’s decree.”

        They inched their way towards the door, neither willing to turn their backs on this crazy bitch.

        “Wait,” Catherine said. They stop. She rushed to the kitchen, returned in a flash, looked at her watch again. “It’s almost 1 pm. Take this.” She held out an open, old-time package of Kool-Aid filled with powder. “You will come to know I speak the truth.”

        Jonathan humored her and took the package, then fished the knife out of the bushes, then they hustled towards the boat. Catherine, seemingly unruffled by their lack of belief in the veracity of her words, called out to them, “You took three photos earlier with your phone, Sarah. Check them when you get back.”

        As they got into the rowboat, Sarah asked, “How did she know I took photos?”

        “Before 12 noon,” smirked Jonathan. “Still a specter.”

        They paddled furiously, wordless stress hanging over them. At the far shore they bolted through the woods, made it back to the house. Dworkin was there to greet them, tail wagging vigorously. Sarah grabbed her phone off the kitchen table. Jonathan looked over her shoulder as she swiped to the three pics. One showed Sarah sitting on the ground. One showed Jonathan and Sarah. The other showed only the ground. Dworkin was not in any of them. They looked at the dog who wagged his tail, eyes full of love.

        “Okay,” said Jonathan. “We return to the pond, drag that rowboat back here. Then we find a way to get it to the dock, maybe use the tandem bike, leave our stuff here if we have to, but we get the fuck off this island even if we have to row back to the mainland. We might meet a boat along the way.”

        Sarah nodded, and they hurried back through the woods towards the pond.

        But the rowboat was gone.


        Back in the living room, Sarah built her biggest fire, as if the larger the flames, the more protection they might have. Jonathan paced. Sarah shredded bark off a log, tossed fragments into the fire. There was no sitting still. There might not be any more sleep.

        “I’m aware that we’re being fucked with,” said Jonathan. “But we still haven’t been threatened in any way. We need to stick together at all times. Lock the windows. Blockade the door at night.”

        “We can’t stay here indefinitely.”

        “We can hang out at the dock. Wave down a boat.”

        “Do you think there’s any truth to Catherine’s story?”

        “A logical explanation for everything. But the pics.”

        “I have to pee.” Sarah left the room.

        Jonathan heard her retch in the bathroom. He hovered by the closed door. “Are you okay?”

        The door swung open. She looked awful. Skin white, hair wild, vomit on her sweater. Then Jonathan noticed the bathroom mirror:

        YOU CAN’T ESCAPE!

        Written in red crayon or lipstick.

        “He’s invaded our one safe space,” stammered Sarah. She ran to her bedroom, slammed the door behind her.

        For days she didn’t come out. Coughing. Sneezing. Moaning. If she used the bathroom, if she ate, it was when he was asleep.

        “Are you any better?” he asked one morning outside her door.

        “I’m a terrible sick person,” she wheezed from her bed. “And an even worse scared one.”

        “Anything I can do?” he asked on another night.

        “Change the water in the hydroponic trays.”

        He did, following the directions that came with her kit.

        “I see buds,” he told her a week later, through the door.

        No answer.

        During an afternoon he asked, “Are you sure you’re eating?”

        No answer. But he heard the rustle of her sheets.

        Finally, he found a grimy cookbook on top of the fridge and selected a recipe for Healing Lentil Soup. There were lentils in the pantry. He followed the recipe as best he could. He gently snipped off a few small spinach leaves from the hydroponic trays, washed them, floated them in a bowl full of soup. He knocked on her door. No answer. He took a deep breath. Went in.

        “Jonathan!” barked Sarah, from the bed, as she covered herself with a blanket even though she wore pajamas.

        He placed the bowl and spoon on her night table, left the room.

        Twenty minutes later she emerged, carried the empty bowl with the spoon inside.

        “The soup was great. Especially the spinach. Thank you. Sorry for being such a child. Thank you for getting me out of my bedroom. I kept dreaming my father was outside my window in a fedora.” She seemed frail.

        “Your childhood must have been quite traumatic.”

        “All he had to do was take off his belt, even if it was just to get ready for bed, and I’d start trembling.”

        She walked towards the couch, stopped for a quick look at the hydroponic trays. The spinach was bigger. Strawberry buds had started. “Thanks for keeping up with it.” Dworkin trotted over and they cuddled together.

        “I was even thinking about you, Jonathan.”

        Silence. “And . . . ?”

        “Wondered why it’s been so long since you’ve been in a relationship. I understand bad break ups, but over a year?”

        He smiled at her. “I became quite insecure after that. It was like I had a great big sign around my neck that said VERY NEEDY. Who’s interested in very needy?”

        “Do you think it would’ve worked if your girlfriend stayed and you had a kid together?”

        “No. I would love a child, but I didn’t love her. Though I was determined to make it work.”

        “So you’d want a kid without a woman?”

        “I want the right woman.”

        “I wouldn’t mind a kid without a man.”

        Dworkin rested his face on Sarah’s lap.

        “Maybe when you’re ready,” said Jonathan. “We hike to the highest spot on the island, start a fire, and try to wave to the plane that flies over every midday?”

        “Okay.”

        It was a few more days before Sarah got her full strength back, enough to bike to the top of the hill where the road ended. Jonathan showed her the initials on the picnic bench.

        “I don’t know what to believe anymore,” said Sarah, as she looked out on the empty horizon.

        They hiked past the boulders. Sarah had matches with her. Soon they were forced to veer inland, still trekking up. Then they burst through the woods into a clearing and were in front of several large sand dunes, open to the sky.

        “A beach on a hill!” exclaimed Sarah.

        “This island would have a lot to offer if it wasn’t for D Jr.”

        “Forget a fire,” said Sarah. “Let’s etch out a giant SOS in the sand and wave frantically.”

        “Good idea.”

        Using the toe end of their hiking boots, they made the letters deep and large. Laid down on the sand, waited. No plane.

        “It usually comes by now,” said Jonathan.

        “Are we just fucked or what?”

        “Whether Catherine’s really Catherine. And Dwight Jr.’s really Dwight Jr. She clearly wants him dead. And he’s clearly invaded our privacy. But I don’t see myself killing someone just to get off this island.”

        “I’m not sure I can kill at all,” said Sarah.

        Jonathan wiped his brow. “I could use a nice cold glass of Kool-Aid right now.”

        Sarah looked at him, tried to ascertain if he was being serious. He made it like he was being serious. Then they both broke into hysterics.

        “That was funny!” said Sarah. “I didn’t know you could be funny.”

        They finally quieted, stared up at the blue sky, poised to leap into a frantic arm wave or rescue dance. But still no plane.

        Jonathan murmured, “I think I’m funnier when I’m less needy.”


        When they returned, Jonathan bent down and grasped the folded piece of paper he had placed between the door and the frame. If it was on the ground they would know someone had been inside. It wasn’t.

        They followed a routine of only going out together, usually taking long walks with Dworkin, sometimes hanging out at the dock, but boats never came close enough to wave down. They hiked to the pond several times, but no rowboat, the yellow house unapproachable by land. They read the books on the mantle shelf. Jonathan stopped shaving and his beard grew black with shades of grey. Sarah tended her hydroponics.

        “Full strawberries soon,” she said to him one evening. “I can make this last for more than four months, eventually transfer it outside in the spring.”

        It wasn’t long before Sarah was able to prepare a beautiful spinach salad, followed by plump, red strawberries.

        “Oh my god,” declared Jonathan. “I don’t know if I’m sick of all the packaged food, or that hydroponics is the secret to great cuisine, but this is amazing!”

        “Thank you,” said Sarah, proudly. She stuck out a marble-sized strawberry to Dworkin, who sat loyally by her side, and he devoured it with passion. “This place, aside from you know who, is exactly what I needed.”

        Jonathan smiled. “I almost didn’t care where I landed—just ready to run—but I’m glad it was here.”

        “I’m just about ready to say, officially, that the Maddoxes have finally decided to leave us alone.”

        “Maybe because we never bought in completely to their shit.”

        Just after midnight, Dworkin barked furiously. Sarah and Jonathan bolted from their rooms, into the living room, she with the hammer, he with the knife, they both kept bedside. Dworkin continued to bark as he stared at the window facing the backyard. Sarah sucked her breath back in. Jonathan said, “Oh shit.”

        The cardboard cutout again, frozen in time, impassive, staring back at them. But then a right hand raised to the brim of the fedora, tipped the hat in their direction, as Dwight Sr. or Jr., whoever the fuck it was—and he did look exactly like the book photo—smiled at them.

        Sarah shrieked, fell backward over the ottoman, the hammer flying out of her hand. Jonathan and Dworkin tore through the living room, out to the back. She heard the dog bark with anger, Jonathan shouting, some scrambling in the woods, then complete quiet. Until Jonathan and Dworkin came back in.

        She hadn’t budged since she fell. Jonathan helped her up.

        “Nothing out there,” he said. “I don’t understand how he got away so fast. Even Dworkin couldn’t find him.”

        Sarah retreated to the couch, chest heaving, eyes moist. “It was like I was a kid again.”

        “Sarah.”

        “Just fell backwards, unable to do anything.” They both looked at the hammer on the floor.

        “Not sure what I would’ve done if confronted. This knife is a bit of a bluff.”

        Sarah started to tremble. His first instinct was to sit next to her, hold her close, but he covered her with a blanket from the couch.

        “This shit is real,” said Sarah.

        “All the more reason to get out of here.”

        “The plane doesn’t come anymore.”

        Jonathan walked to the rotary phone on the table. More as a joke, he picked up the receiver and said, “We can call 911.” They both heard the dial tone.

        “No way,” said Sarah who now stood next to him.

        “I remember a phone like this in my grandmother’s house.” He called 911, sticking a finger in the appropriate numbered holes, circling the dialing wheel to the right. Nothing. He hung up, dialed a cousin’s house in Connecticut. Nothing. He called the area code-less number penciled on the center of the wheel. It rang. For a long time. No answer. “Seems to work only on the island.”

        They sat on the couch, adrenaline coursing through their bodies, making it impossible to sleep. Dworkin curled between them, soon drifting into a rhythmic snore. Jonathan had to smile. So did Sarah.

        At first light, they explored the backyard for any telltale sign. Nothing. They talked about building a raft. But how would they make it float?

        That night, their sleep was once again shattered . . . by the loud, deep wail of the weathervane on the roof.

        They darted out of their rooms, not sure this was another invasion, though it was just after midnight. Dworkin looked up at them curiously from his slumber in front of the fireplace, which had long gone cold.

        “Worth checking?” asked Jonathan.

        “Not going to sleep otherwise.”

        “I’ll get the knife.”

        “I’m coming too this time.” She already had the hammer.

        Dworkin went back to sleep.

        Jonathan led the way out back with a flashlight. He circled the light around the yard, then inside the shed. Just the cardboard cutout. He pointed the beam towards the roof, where the weathervane had been attached. Gone. Another sweep of the yard, Sarah poised behind him, until he stopped at the weathervane on the ground, broken at the base, arrow impaled, sticking straight up.

        “Must have been some wind to blow that thing off,” said Jonathan.

        “I didn’t hear nor feel any wind.”

        They looked at each other, seemed to share the same thought at the same time. They bolted back into the house.

        Dworkin lay in his same spot in front of the fireplace. Only he was dead. Throat slashed from ear to ear.

        Sarah screamed. Jonathan grabbed the hammer out of her hand, scaring her even more, and chucked it through one of the panes in Dwight Jr.’s favorite window, glass shattering everywhere.

        “It’s personal now,” blurted Jonathan.

        “The Kool-Aid’s in a kitchen drawer.”


        The next day, they buried Dworkin in the woods in the back, marked the grave with a large stone.

        “He was a good boy,” said Sarah, tears forming.

        “The best.” Also tears.

        Back at the yard, Jonathan found the hammer under the window. He gave it to Sarah. Though she shared and admired Jonathan’s rage, there was something about it that frightened her: the way he grabbed the hammer, flung it through the window without thinking, the harshness that tainted his desire for revenge. She still wasn’t sure exactly what he was capable of. And, sadly, she still did not know what she was capable of either.

        Inside, Jonathan cleaned up broken glass, while Sarah scrubbed up the blood. Just after 12 noon, they were startled by a loud ringing. They rushed to the phone. Sarah picked up, held the receiver between them. They heard Catherine’s voice: “If you get this done, I promise to deliver the rowboat to the dock.”

        She hung up.


        The harmony they had achieved—eating together, walks with Dworkin, talking in front of the fireplace—was shattered, like the window, the broken pane now covered with cardboard. Dwight Jr. had succeeded in assaulting their one safe place. He proved there was no escape. He destroyed the fragile bridge between them, this dog they cared for together, who loved them both equally. They drifted around the small cottage, uncomfortable, still in mourning, afraid that any talk would be only of death, the one that happened, the one they wanted to happen.

        Over a solemn dinner of spinach, strawberries, and now tomatoes and lettuce, Jonathan said, “We need to stop waiting around for when he chooses to come to us. This periodic toying as if the cottage is a playground and we’re his jungle gym. We need to go at him, set the terms for when he appears.”

        Sarah nodded.

        After washing the dishes, Jonathan went out back, retrieved the cardboard cutout, brought it inside, propped it against the wall facing the back window.

        “Now I really feel watched,” said Sarah.

        Using a serrated kitchen knife, Jonathan trimmed the fedora down so it looked like just a round head. Then he went to his room, returned with a sweater, slid it over the cutout, the sleeves hanging loosely.

        “You really believe he’ll think that’s you? He’s probably floating somewhere in the room now, watching us.”

        “Either way he won’t like that I defaced his plaything.”

        They went to bed at their usual time, both now with a sixth sense as to when midnight approached, and more fear would rise in their throats. Sarah got up, this time grabbed the axe she had brought in from outside, sat in an easy chair facing the backyard window. It was a few moments before Dwight Jr. appeared, through the windowpane that had not been broken. She knew it was him because the cutout still faced the window . . . and he wore the fedora. She trembled. He smiled.

        Outside, Jonathan crept from behind the shed, hammer raised in his hand, edged slowly towards Dwight Jr, the plan to knock him out and force-feed the tainted Kool-Aid.

        Sarah was eye-locked with Dwight Jr., shaking as if in the crosshairs of the hunting bow. She had to look away. When she turned back, he was gone. She gasped, listened, heard nothing. She managed to grasp the axe tightly, and the flashlight, despite her trembling hands, and creep out the front, around to the back. She canvassed the whole yard and the shed with her light. Nothing. No sounds. Not even a breeze through the trees. She went back inside, hurried to Jonathan’s bedroom. His window was still open from when he had snuck out to wait behind the shed for Dwight Jr. to appear.

        THE PHONE RANG!

        She yelped. Ran to it, lifted the receiver, held it with an unsteady hand.

        Dwight Jr.: “I have him.”

        She slammed the receiver down, went back to the chair, axe still in hand. She would not sleep. She felt rage. She felt helpless.

        In the morning, Sarah stood up, body stiff. She edged out back with the axe, saw one set of scrambled footprints, as if half of a scuffle.

        When the sun rose straight overhead, she went to the phone, dialed the number in the circle. Catherine picked up.

        “Dwight Jr. has Jonathan,” said Sarah. “Don’t know if he’s dead or alive.”

        “My son’s probably a lot more focused on you.”

        “Why?”

        “Why do you think?”

        Sarah shivered. Men were men even when ghosts.

        “I hate him,” said Sarah.

        “I still see the boy.”

        “I see the monster, as I do with most men.”

        “This is a beautiful place. It still can be. Save Jonathan. Save yourself. Save me.”

        Sarah hung up. Tears flowed. She saw flecks of blood on the floor where Dworkin had been slashed. She approached the cutout. Sniffed the sweater. She could smell Jonathan. She removed the garment, folded it neatly, then built a large fire, snapped the cardboard cutout with her foot, fed the pieces into the flames. If she could only do that for real!

        That night she sat in the same chair, in her pajamas, axe by her side, fire going. She turned on her cell phone and it glowed with what little charge it had left. She texted her mother:

I wish you had left him. Taken us away. No matter what the consequence, nothing is worth living in fear. I’m sorry I didn’t do more to protect you, rescue you. Then maybe we both would’ve found peace and I would’ve rescued myself.

        She hit send, though she was sure the text would never go anywhere, would never be read. She shut off her phone.

        It had to be past midnight because the phone rang. She picked up.

        “You destroyed my twin,” said Dwight Jr.

        “Is Jonathan still alive?”

        “Find me and you’ll find out. I have something that will penetrate your deepest parts.”

        “You’re an asshole. And so is Jim Jones.”

        “So brave sitting in your house with an axe.”

        She slammed the phone down, looked out the back window, but could see nothing. But she did hear, suddenly, the siren go off.

        She knew she had to go out there. She knew she had to save Jonathan, if he was alive. She knew she needed to destroy Dwight Jr. But she was frightened.

        Sarah paced, silently stabbing herself for her cowardice. Her fear. What did she even need to be alive for anymore?

        She stopped at the fireplace bookshelf. She knew the book was there, remembered where the passage might be. She grasped The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer and quickly found the words:

Until a woman as she is can drive the plastic spectre out of her own and her man’s imagination she will continue to apologize and disguise herself.

        She grabbed the axe and flashlight, exited the cottage, walked into the back woods, towards the siren calling. If she hurried, she trembled less. Just before the pond, tied and bound, back to her, under the moonlight, she saw Jonathan’s lifeless body hanging from a tree, lynched. Dwight Jr., fedora, suit, stepped out of the bushes to block her way. The siren stopped.

        “Didn’t think you had it in you,” he said.

        She gripped the axe tighter.

        “Go for it,” he taunted. “I’m mortal now. As Jim Jones once was. But no mere mortal.”

        She pulled the axe back but remained frozen.

        “I thought so,” he continued.

        Just then there was motion from the tree and Jonathan’s body swung around. She shone the flashlight on him. He was gagged, but looked at her, eyes alive, hung from the armpits, not the neck.

        “Do you think I spared him?” asked Dwight Jr. “The Dark Father spared no one and those who escaped were redeemed by me.”

        The axe seemed too heavy to hold, yet alone swing. He moved closer. She smelled his sour breath.

        “I want Jonathan to witness the desecration,” he continued, “before he goes the way of all who dare inhabit this place.”

        He leaned forward as if he was about to kiss her.

        “It’s been so long,” he whispered.

        “No,” she said, meekly.

        “Jonestown rules. Any woman or man must submit to sex with The Father.”

        “It’s not sex!”

        “Indeed. But as the Reverend decreed, ‘Die with a degree of dignity.’”

        She dropped the axe, flashlight, and bolted. Back towards the house. He laughed lightly, with glee, delighted there was more to the hunt. He took off after her.

        Jonathan began to wiggle his wrists out of the restraints.

        She ran as fast as she could. She heard his footsteps behind her.

        He called out, “You can’t escape! . . . I don’t have much time! . . . If not tonight then tomorrow!”

        Sarah finally broke through the woods, into the yard, hoping to make it to the cottage and blockade the door with furniture until his time ran out.

        But she tripped over the weathervane that was still impaled in the ground.

        “Excellent,” said Dwight Jr. as he exited the woods behind her. “Already on your back.”

        “Sarah!” yelled Jonathan from the woods, axe in hand, oblivious to scratches and blows from branches and tree limbs as he barreled forward.

        Dwight Jr. lowered himself on top of her. “He’ll be my witness.”

        Sarah hyperventilated. All the violence of her childhood was about to happen. The thing she suspected every man wanted to do was about to happen.

        Dwight Jr. unzipped his pants. “Prepare to die.”

        Jonathan burst through the trees, axe raised, screaming “NO!” just as Sarah reached for the weathervane and stabbed Dwight Jr. in the neck with the sharp, pointed arrow end. Blood gushed. He fell off her. Whimpered like a dying baby.

        Sarah slid away. Already covered in blood. Jonathan dropped the axe. Stupefied. Sarah rushed into the house, quickly returned with a glass of water mixed with the poisoned Kool-Aid.

        She knelt down and Jonathan lifted Dwight Jr.’s head as he wheezed and gasped for air.

        Sarah put the glass to Dwight Jr.’s lips and the man swallowed greedily.

        “Thank you,” he whispered, just before dying. For good.

        “Fuck you,” said Sarah.


        The next morning, they had no inclination to bury Dwight Jr., but didn’t need to. His body was gone. Just a pool of blood in the dirt was all that was left of this earthly son of the devil. Sarah had already burned her bloody pajamas.

        They didn’t know for sure, but were sure enough, as they biked silently to the dock. The rowboat and two oars were there. They knew Catherine had taken her final drink as well.

        They got into the boat. Still silent. Rowed towards the mainland. Fortunately, it was a calm, nearly windless day, the only sounds the slap of their paddles into the water, and the tide, in their favor, against the boat.

        A few hundred yards out, Sarah looked back at the island. “No joy in what we did. Though glad to do it.”

        Jonathan remained silent. They needed to preserve their strength for the several miles trip back to the mainland. Maybe they were both sad. Because of the good things they had left behind. Because of what they had shared. Because of who was buried in the woods, under a stone, behind their cottage. Because they were leaving the beauty of their isolation. Because of a sense that there was very little for them back in the real world, a place where they would not be connected to each other. Because whatever was there, it would have to be dealt with alone.

        They finally had to take a break. The mainland loomed larger, but was still far away. A pile of garbage floated by them: soda cans, beer bottles, hairbrush, surgical mask. Without speaking, they began paddling again.

        They soon had to stop once more, their hands red and raw, blisters forming.

        “We’ll get there before the sun goes down,” said Jonathan.

        “We’re a good team.”

        Finally, at a dock by the main town, they steered the rowboat up to a ladder. Late afternoon. Boats were anchored around this inlet bay. Another boat was tied to the same dock, pointed out to sea.

        “Isn’t that the ferry we came out on,” said Sarah.

        They tied off their rowboat. Climbed the ladder up to the dock. Legs wobbled as they stepped onto land. They didn’t see anyone.

        “I was hoping for a taxi into town, to the train back to New York,” said Jonathan.

        “The hike will do us good.”

        As they walked, they saw empty cars, parked randomly, one on the curb, another yards from the roadside. They looked up at the sky, searching for the plane, any plane. They passed a park, a broken swing squeaking in the wind. Sarah took out her phone, powered it up. “I’ll surely have a backlog of texts.” She tapped the phone, swiped randomly. “No news, no weather, no time, no texts, no emails, no service.”

        Jonathan powered up his phone. “No internet.”

        They arrived at the main street of this small town, still without seeing a soul, closed stores and restaurants bordering both sides. Everything closed. No one inside or on the sidewalks. The train was in, but the station was empty. They passed an electronics store, the front door swinging open, back and forth. Sarah followed Jonathan in. He turned on a new TV. The power went on, but no picture.

        It was in the window of a pizza place where they saw a hand-scrawled sign:
        CLOSED FOREVER THANKS TO THE PANDEMIC.  FUCK YOU, VIRUS!

        “It’s not safe here,” said Jonathan.

        “We need to head back.”

        They hustled towards the bay.

        “The first day I met you,” said Jonathan, “I felt less lonely.”

        “I feel safe with you.”

        At the dock, they climbed onboard the ferry. In the cabin, they saw the key in the ignition.

        “Catherine?” asked Jonathan.

        Sarah shrugged, turned the key, fired up the engine. Jonathan untied the boat from the dock, returned to the cabin. Sarah eased the vessel out to sea, towards the dot of land that was their home.

        “Do you know how to drive a boat?” asked Jonathan.

        “No,” replied Sarah.

        They both laughed. Nothing more to say. Glad to be away from whatever was going on. Nervous. But happy they were in it together.

        They arrived on their island just before sunset. They jumped onto the dock, tied up the boat, walked to shore. Jonathan, on a lark, found a hefty piece of tree limb. He gave the lockbox a few bashes and soon their money flew in all directions.

        Sarah said, “No internet. No cell service. No TV. No cars.”

        “No money!”

        “What a concept!”

        They walked side by side, a few feet apart, towards the tandem bike they had left by the road. But just then, out of the woods, like a dart, Dworkin came running towards them. Barking with joy. They met him halfway, stooped down, smothered him with pets as he showered them with kisses.

        “Our little boy!” exclaimed Sarah, as they swelled with pride and happiness.

        “No Kool-Aid for you,” said Jonathan.

        “Let’s walk back together. We can get the bike tomorrow.”

        They continued down the road, still just a few feet apart. Only this time Dworkin trotted playfully between them. Only this time they each swung an arm out, opened their palms, grasped the other’s hand, held on tight.

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