Page 10 of On Dry Land

Pulling up a web browser, I do a quick search of hotels in the area. There aren’t many, and I usually avoid hotels if at all possible, not able to drop a few hundred dollars a night on a mattress. There’s one long-term-stay option, which looks promising. The longer you book, the cheaper the rates, apparently, and the reviews are pretty much raving. The cottages are also the ones a viewer recommended to me after they stayed in them for a two-week holiday and were impressed. I memorize the address and shut my phone back down, wanting to conserve battery.

Wendy brings my food before swooping away and returning to refill both my water and coffee. Nobody talks to me as I eat, the food greasy and hot and the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. I start garnering more attention, though, people’s eyes catching on me and holding as they shrug on their coats and leave. Every time I look up from my food, I meet the eye of someone watching me with interest. Although I’m not fond of the attention, it doesn’t yet feel malicious. Slowly, I eat my way through every bit of food on my plate before using a corner of my toast to mop up anything I might have missed with the fork. I make it through five mugs of coffee and seven glasses of water.

Sitting back, I put my silverware in a stack on the empty plate and take a deep breath. I’m uncomfortably full, but liquids are just as hard to find on the road as solids. If food or drink is in front of me, I have to finish it. There is no guarantee of more later.

Wendy brings me a peppermint with my bill, and I feel awful for the three dollars I leave on the table to cover it, plus a little extra. No amount of politeness on my part will make up for the meager tip, and I’d leave more if I could. Flipping the receipt over, I write a thank-you on the back, hoping she doesn’t curse my guts as I walk out the door.

It’s freezing outside. It took me hours to eat my way through that plate of food, and I was hoping that warmer temperatures would be more likely with the sun in the sky. Regretting that I can’t turn back around and spend the day in the cozy interior of the diner, I make sure my GoPro is in the right spot, hunch my shoulders, and begin walking. I memorized the map to the Libby Cottages and am happy to at least be able to see a new part of town on my journey.

Halfway there, rain starts falling from the sky. I frown, holding out a gloved palm and watching as snowflakes melt on the fabric. A mix of rain and snow, actually, which is fantastic. Sleet is terrible to walk in, and makes roadways twice as dangerous as they usually are. It picks up the longer I walk, blowing into my face like tiny little icicles, stinging my cheeks. By the time I get to the Libby Cottages, all the warmth I accumulated at the Sand Dollar Diner has flown away on the wind, and I’m finding it hard to appreciate the beauty of the town. I need a good night of rest. Desperately. I need a real shower, with real hot water, and a bed that doesn’t zip up the side. I need to feel just a little bit human, because, right now, I’m feeling like nothing at all.

“Hi, welcome in!” a cheerful voice greets me when I walk into the main office at the Libby Cottages. I smile at the woman seated behind the desk, cheeks raw from the wind and cold, eyes damp as they start watering from the abrupt change in temperature.

“Hi, thank you,” I reply, trying not to sound as down as I feel. People respond better to joy than sadness.

“Goodness, it’s cold out there, isn’t it? You look frozen to the bone,” she comments, frowning.

“I was hoping I could rent a room?” Stepping up to the counter, I clench and unclench my hands in my pockets, trying to generate warmth. These are good gloves, yet my hands are cold anyway. “For the night, for sure, but I’m hoping to be in town for a few weeks, at least.”

Her face falls, and any hope I had plummets with it. She’s going to turn me away.

“Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry. We’re all booked up. I don’t have a cottage opening until next Thursday, and it’s a three bedroom.” She looks genuinely apologetic as her eyes move over my face and down my body, taking in my clothes. “I could call over to the Boatman, if you’d like? They usually have a vacancy or two.”

Smiling weakly, I shake my head. The Boatman is a five-star hotel. I didn’t even bother clicking on the listing when I’d been searching for options. I can’t afford it.

“No, that’s all right. Thank you for offering, though, Amy,” I add, glancing at her name tag. People like being called by their name. She smiles sadly at me, eyes wide and remorseful. She really does look sorry. It almost makes me feel bad for even asking.

“There’s a few longer stays available in Harris,” she adds, plucking a map from a little tray sitting on the counter and unfolding it to point at a town next to Siren’s Point. “It’s not too far away. If you leave now, you’ll make it well before we lose the light.”

She bites her lip, eyes flicking to the straps of my backpack. She’s trying to be considerate and give me the benefit of the doubt that I drove here in a car. Feeling exhausted, I simply nod and smile again.

“Thank you, I’ll do that.”

Relieved, she refolds the map, snatching a business card and tucking it inside before handing them to me.

“There you are. Give me a call if you’d like to try later, okay? Again, I’m so sorry. We aren’t usually this busy in the winter months, but vacationers are looking for snow this year, apparently.”

I mumble my way through the small talk, backing slowly toward the door. I’m not eager to be out in the cold again, but I need to figure something out before I lose the light, as Amy so helpfully pointed out. As miserable as last night was, it’ll be nothing compared to this one if I have to sleep outside. Heading back the way I came, once more dreaming of the warm diner, I make the decision to sleep inside the public toilet at the Mermaid trailhead. The sleet is really coming down now, temperature noticeably dropping, and I’ve had enough close brushes with frostbite to not go looking for another.

When I’m passing the wharf, I turn my head and look out at the boats, distracted by the gray water and dark clouds hovering over the ocean. It’s a pretty view, if not a little frightening. The elements seem a lot closer, all of a sudden, like Mother Nature wouldn’t have to try all that hard to wipe Siren’s Point off the map.

It’s also getting colder. A lot colder. And fast—the temperatures declining rapidly as the sleet continues to patter gently against my jacket. It’s thick enough that the visibility is poor, and I can only see so far ahead before the world washes away into white. Tucking my face as far as I can into the collar of my jacket, I pull my beanie lower and walk on, skin stinging and eyes watering as the snow blows directly into my face.

I slip on some loose gravel on my way to the trailhead, stumbling and hitting my knee hard enough on the ground to make tears pop into my eyes, the heavy backpack unbalancing me for a moment. My joints protest when I push myself back to standing, hips twinging with pain and knee throbbing. My shoulders are numb underneath the straps of my pack, and as I forcibly push myself back into motion, I wish that my feet were as well.

It feels like there are a hundred tiny rocks inside my shoes, digging into the soles of my feet and sending stabbing pain shooting up my legs with each step I take. Last night wasn’t particularly restful for my brain or my body, and both are nearing the point where exhaustion can no longer be pushed through and ignored. Already, my stomach feels hollow and aching, like the food I put into it this morning did nothing but fall into a void.

When I reach the concrete outhouse building, the handle is cold beneath my gloved palm, and my arm shakes as I pull open the door. I blink away the moisture sticking to my eyelashes, feeling the burn of tears in the corners of my eyes as I step inside. For just a moment, I can trick myself into believing it’s warmer. The absence of the wind and the blowing snow has this little concrete shelter feeling like a portal to a warm, sunny beach for a few blissful seconds.

Checking to make sure nobody is lurking in any of the stalls, I turn on the tap, bending and tilting my head to drink from the stream of frigid water. My stomach cramps, and I ignore it, just like I ignore the face in the scratched and dirty mirror. I’m not prone to letting things get to me. I will bend and bend and bend before I ever show a sign of breaking. I’m good at surviving.

But there are always days like this, when no amount of food can touch the hunger, and the wear on my body becomes tears; when the hard makes it difficult to remember there has ever been any good. There is only so long a person can go before they must stop.

Arms trembling, I wipe the back of my glove across my eyes and carefully slip my backpack from my shoulders. I bite my lip as I do, sensation flooding the area like a thousand needles stabbing into my skin. When I set the bag on the ground, I notice a small gap underneath the door, snow blowing gently through. It would be best to sleep in the furthest corner, curled up inside one of the stalls. But there’s no lock on this door, which means the only option I have is to block it.

“Everything is fine,” I murmur to myself, voice echoing slightly. This is honestly a hell of a lot more than I can usually count on when sleeping rough, and I really am grateful for it. The difference between sleeping on the ground exposed to the elements and sleeping on the ground inside a shelter is immense. The odds of getting frostbitten outside tonight would have been high. Now, with the simple addition of four walls and a roof, I can safely halve that possibility. I’ll be fine. Life hasn’t killed me yet, and it certainly won’t tonight. Not if I have anything to say about it.

I drink a little more water, knowing it’ll help trick my brain into thinking my stomach has something to digest, pee, and carefully pull my sleeping bag from my pack. The heavy metal door is cold against my back as I slip my legs into the sleeping bag—fully dressed and boots still on, feet throbbing—and zip it up. Making sure my body is completely blocking the door, I use my backpack as a pillow and do my best to curl up.