I woke up in a grassy paddock, on the edge of a beach. The nearest town has a name that I cannot remember. I’m in a backwater campground. The caretaker lives in an old Bedford truck. There are iron beams growing from the bonnet to a bedroom above. It’s a house on wheels with a sign hanging from her backdoor, “boss witch lives here.”

I drift. A life gets caught in a current and carried out to sea. Somewhere there are islands, inlets, landmasses. It takes an act of will to rowboat back to shore. Who among us has a boat? It is the way of least resistance to see where the waterflow will take me.