in a different light. Hoping for inspiration. Word after word, phrase after phrase. I can compound both the trite and the occasionally brilliant idea into a literary sedative that assures me, despite everything, I am still myself. I’m still free. I haven’t given in.
Do you know her name? Callisto.
Can you find her in the stars? Callisto.
Hunting for… Hunting for…
Dammit. I can never get past this part.
Mooshy Moran comes up alongside me and interrupts my concentration. “Pretty cold out.”
“Yep,” I say, popping the P. Why people bother to comment on the weather is beyond me. It’s barely June. It’s northern Minnesota. This is Lake Superior. Yeah, it’s cold. Big surprise.
I shove my notebook into the back of my waistband and look up at the sky. I have to believe that something good will come my way. I’ve been adrift for too long. What I really need now is an anchor.
Chapter Six
Katherine
I am one of eight passengers in a stuffy coach bus, and my grimy window is so gummed up that it won’t go down more than an inch. This is a problem because:
1. The man across the aisle has decided to remove his shoes.
2. I’ve still got three hours left in this trip.
3. I need to keep a clear head.
The clear head is for figuring out how to get my mom’s name off my bank account and open a new one at some out-of-town institution she’s never heard of. Like somewhere in Switzerland.
Switzerland, I think, indulging my fantasies. Andrew and I could get married and live in Switzerland. I make a mental list of all the perfect Swiss wedding party details: the flowers, the music, a ring bearer in lederhosen, the fondue…
It doesn’t take much effort to invest in these fantasies. Hours go by. Cornfields give way to thick pine forests. During the last hour, we pass over rushing waterfalls and through dark tunnels carved out of rocks the color of iron. It’s only when the temperature takes a noticeable dip that I check the time. I catch a glimpse of Lake Superior and realize just how far I’ve come.
We’re close. This is it.
The other passengers start gathering their things. The man across the aisle puts his shoes back on. I text Andrew a quick: arrived safely. more later. But it doesn’t want to go through.
By the time I’ve hit resend four more times, the bus makes a great sweeping turn, chugging down a sloping road then settling gently into a parking spot half a block from a boat landing. A moored ferry creaks and groans against the railroad ties that bolster the pier.
“New Porte,” announces the driver, as if there was any doubt. Through the windshield, I can see the early-evening sun shimmering off the vast expanse of water. It makes the lake look laced with tinsel.
My fellow road-weary passengers groan and stretch their backs, but they’re quick to disembark. I watch them go, but I’m not so eager. Getting off the bus means forfeiting my option of turning back. I need that possibility to remain open for just a moment longer. Just a little longer.
Within seconds, I am alone.
I breathe deep. Just one more moment.
A set of knuckles raps sharply on my window, and I jump. A finger on a large hand swirls in the air, telling me to hurry up and get off already. Whoever belongs to the hand, he’s standing so close to the bus I can only see the top of his head, which, I note, is covered in a tangled mess of reddish brown hair. The hair takes a step back, and the guy beneath it taps his finger to an imaginary wristwatch. I suck in my breath and gather my things.
As I make my way down the steps, the guy is waiting for me there, dressed in faded jeans and a navy blue polo stretched across his broad shoulders. His shirt bears the Little Bear Island Ferry insignia. His hands are large and callused. I only know this because when I stumble on the broken pavement, he catches me mid-fall and rights me on my feet. I gasp, mortified, and look up into his face. I can’t help myself from cataloging the details:
1. Eyes—Like looking into the pristine swimming pool at Brook Marsh
2. Nose—Straight as a knife
3. Jaw—Square. Rarely sees a razor
4. Overall—Could be good looking, but completely unkempt.
His brows arch high with surprise, but those bright blue eyes—they take in my face with an unapologetic sureness. In fact, everything about him is strong