[For Jess]

The day after Sam had disappeared dawned as bright and beautiful as always on the island. The birds still chirped, the sun still shone, the tides just kept on turning. In the little bungalow I shared with Jess, though, the atmosphere was decidedly more subdued.

I'd not gone into the bakery that day, instead choosing to lay in bed for awhile, turning over the onslaught of conflicting thoughts and emotions battering my head. The night before, I'd cried. Wept, really, and not just for Sam. For the damned hopeless reality of the place, and the simple fact that none of us were safe from cruelty and sorrow, no matter how many buildings we erected or parties were planned. These were the worst days, the ones that came after a disappearance. They could shake the resolve of even the most optimistic person.

In the light of the new day, though, I felt cried out. Not just hollow but tired of feeling hollow. Tired of going through this again and again. For most people, I think there comes a point when you just can't weep or wallow anymore.

It was mid-morning by the time I padded barefoot down the stairs and into the kitchen, still in my nightshirt and wearily hoping we had some coffee left.