The boat was smaller than I’d hoped for the purpose of getting aboard unseen. I hurried on with a large group of tourists, walked directly to the cars parked in the hull, and slipped beneath a truck, crouched behind one of the wheels. Then waited. An hour after we left port I made my way up the deck stairs, avoiding the dim carpeted interior of the ship.

I could see in through the windows, families and couples, people traveling in small groups, sitting inside the hold, reading or drinking or playing cards and dominoes. On deck, people gathered at metal tables in the late-afternoon sun or stood at the rail to be beaten by the wind. When we reached the open water they put on sweaters and sweatshirts and light jackets and scarves. I stood against the rail gazing out at the blue water rippling with silver light. Cool salty air rushing into my lungs before I could breathe it. When it got colder still I pressed myself against the metal box that held life jackets to block the wind, tried to absorb the heat of the deck and let the sun warm me.

A light breeze trembled against my body, raising a flush of goose bumps that stiffened the hairs on my arms and legs.

After an hour or so I went to the small bar inside the ship and asked for water and a cup of ice. I was hungry again and swallowing something, even ice, made me feel better. I needed to save the little money I had in case Alogomandra was just some place Milo’d read about and decided to write down.

Tourists were eating things they brought in their backpacks or the snacks from the bar, spanakopitas and cheese pies and fried potatoes. Suddenly I was ill, ran to a bathroom just off the top deck, and crouched on my knees vomiting and heaving for what seemed like an hour until I was empty, just a sick animal leaning against a metal door.

Later, outside and clearheaded, I went to the rails and stood shivering to watch the orange sun spread its color across the sea and slip beyond the crest of the horizon until there was nothing in the world but black water and bright stars.

The boat docked at a sleepy port strung with lanterns. It was the end of August and those who disembarked looked more like locals and visitors from nearby islands. The few foreigners walking down the gangway were blond and tall. Small cars and a truck with vegetables painted on the side drove out of the boat’s belly and onto the narrow paved road that ran along the coast. The port was full of tall-masted boats bobbing and clanging in their slips.

Across the main road, cobbled streets led up into whitewashed terraced houses built into the stone of the high rocky cliffside. Port cafés, a grocery, and a tourist shop were all closed; a disappointment, as part of my plan had been to eat from abandoned terrace plates.

A light wind brought the faint nostalgic scent of something burning. I slung my pack over my shoulder and walked along the coastal road beneath a gleaming moon and stars; followed the shore and could see the empty black of the sea, the surf a thin white line cresting and rolling in.

After some time the road sloped down again and I crossed over a bridge, looking for a sheltered place to sleep along the beach. Suddenly from nowhere I was wishing I had some venison jerky and thinking about Dare. And that I should call him and tell him about the boat or the stars or the ruins, because he’d never been out of Winthrop. I started thinking how there was always dinner when he was home. Always something. And enough food in the house when he was gone. How I always knew I could kill something myself if I needed to. I wondered if there were deer on this island. There would be birds and other small game. We could live here for free, I thought, feeling lighter in my step every second; we could fish. We could eat things we caught.

I followed a footpath flanked by cedar trees, stumbled down toward the sea. At the bottom lay a sandy cove where I pulled off my boots and clothes, got a bar of soap from my bag, and went to the water’s edge to bathe. It had been a few months since I’d done more than wash at the sink in my room or in a public bathroom. I waded into the sea and scrubbed my whole body, my scalp, tossed the bar of soap up onto the pile of clothes, then ducked beneath the cool water and swam until salt burned my lips and I felt clean and cold and alive.

Back where the trail met the sand there was a secluded depression beside some tall cedars. I dug a little camp, collected some brush and flotsam and set it on fire, sat naked on my shirt, smoking. My skin warmed, dried from the fire, and I dressed in the only other clothes I owned. Then lay near the flames, in the clear silence and slept.