The Island Ferry at Half Past Eleven

The last ferry to Orra was smaller than Mina expected. It had room for two cars, though there were none tonight, and a covered bench polished by years of coats and salt air.

Six wicker baskets stood near the wheelhouse. They contained bread for the island shop, the deckhand explained, along with a small parcel of screws and a newspaper that would already be yesterday’s by the time anyone read it. A green bicycle leaned against the rail.

The harbor lights drew away slowly. The sea was so calm that the ferry seemed less to cross it than to press one long, dark fold into its surface. Mina watched the faint wake and counted the lamps on shore until the distance gathered them together.

Halfway across, the lighthouse appeared. It did not sweep the water dramatically. Its light came and went with the measured patience of someone turning a page in another room.

At Orra the deckhand rolled the bicycle down the ramp. The baskets followed. Mina stayed by the rail for one more moment, looking back across the dark water. There would be a room above the harbor inn, a narrow bed, and a window she could leave slightly open. That was enough of the journey to know for now.