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every way. And those names—their private nicknames for the two swimming fishes in her womb—had somehow stuck. Now she was a stay-at-home mom with an unfinished, unpublished dissertation in poetry. A husband who was sleeping on the couch. And a problem child nobody knew what to do with, least of all her.
    â€œDon’t cry, Rose,” said Lottie. “This music makes everyone sad.”
    By the time they picked up Route 1 it was already starting to get dark. Rose couldn’t tell whether it was because there was rain coming or because it was getting so late. They had badly misjudged the time. As they passed the careworn businesses that lined the roadway, Maine didn’t look so hot. The sky was threatening and bruised. There was a smell of ozone in the air, even through the air-conditioning. Rose was a rusty enough driver as it was (Lottie had driven the first three hundred miles), and now, if it rained and roads were slick and it got dark . . . She did not want to think about that.
    Lightning flashed in the sky in front of her. “How much farther can it possibly be?” Lottie checked her directions, which were hard to read in the struggling light. Robert SanSouci had not done them any favors by writing the whole thing by hand on onionskin and sending it by snail mail. Why couldn’t they just follow GPS once they got off Route 1? Was the place that remote? Was the whole thing an elaborate ruse?
    â€œRobert says the exit for 286 is coming up,” said Lottie, as if Robert were a close personal friend. “A while more on Route One, then a few miles on twisty roads, through West Dorset and then Dorset and then Dorset Harbor—a lot of Dorsets—and over a bridge to Big Lost. Then a short boat trip from Big Lost to Little Lost, and we’re there.”
    â€œIf we don’t end up in Stephen King country,” said Rose.
    â€œAt least it will be an experience,” said Lottie. “I’m glad we told the others they couldn’t come till tomorrow. We’ll get to claim the place for ourselves. I want to sleep in the round part.”
    â€œThe turret,” Rose said. “Me too.” Her back was killing her and she had a literal pain in the ass from sitting so long. Twenty minutes passed in silence. She thought she might scream just for something to do when Lottie piped up, “West Dorset two miles! You’ve done it, Rose!”
    Rose turned off 286 and headed confusingly east to West Dover, and the heavens opened. At least for now they were on a fairly decent road, but the rain was bucketing down and the headlights of the oncoming cars were strafing Rose’s eyes. Lottie was a competent navigator but Robert’s directions were discursive rather than practical. The windshield wipers’ frantic back-and-forth was making them both crazy.
    â€œI can’t even see the road, much less a ‘yellow farmhouse on a verge with a large oak tree opposite,’” said Rose after one of Lottie’s instructions. “Can’t we ask directions?”
    â€œThere’s no one to ask,” said Lottie. “Turn here!”
    â€œDon’t yell at me!”
    â€œI’m not yelling!” Lottie yelled.
    Rose missed the turn and made a hairpin U-turn but she kept her voice even. “Since we missed the ferry, Robert says there’ll be a boat for us at the landing.” Lottie had insisted on stopping at L.L.Bean. She was almost an hour late to meet Rose in the parking lot. She thought they’d parked in the Muskrat lot, not the Moose.
    â€œA couple of miles on this road and then we go over a causeway . . . that’ll be Big Lost Island.”
    â€œWhere I bet they have a motel,” said Rose.
    â€œThen we look for a dirt road next to a really tall lone spruce on the right.”
    â€œEvery tree in this whole state is a tall spruce,” said Rose.
    â€œNow!” said Lottie.
    Rose made a sharp