A young woman–she considers herself young but really, she’s in her mid-thirties, not young, not old–leaves her family and heads to an island to be alone for several days. Not a tropical island, a northern island in autumn. She leaves because she cannot think clearly with little ones about her feet, with the man who has hurt her living beside her, pouring cereal, clicking the remote, changing diapers.
She gets on a plane, then into a rental car, and drives three hours through farm fields and balsam fir forests, crossing the Atlantic on a miles-long bridge. She arrives, tires on land, but there are no reservations. No itinerary. Only a childhood novel beside her in the passenger seat.