Page 4 of On Dry Land

“Fine,” Dylan says behind me, agreeing to a divorce with not an ounce of fight. I hadn’t been testing him, but he failed anyway. In the distance, the Maiden Seas glows with the setting sun. “So, what do you want, then? The house? The cars? Half of my trust fund and a kidney?”

I don’t answer right away. He’s being ridiculous, which means he thinks this is a joke. I imagine myself out there in the water, below the surface, limbs spread, floating. Detached. No sound but the gentle whoosh of the ocean, far enough down that there’s nothing but a calm push and pull—a tender sort of motion. Behind me, Dylan makes a breathy noise that means he’s about to talk again. I clear my throat, speaking before he can.

“I want the boat.”

Chapter One

SPENCER

It takes seven days to walk from Jacksonville, Florida, to Charleston, South Carolina, and another seven days on top of that to get to the Outer Banks. From there, a person could head inland and hop onto the Appalachian Trail. They might walk in the direction of New York City, curious about a park, in the middle of a city, so massive you could get lost in it. And then, when the Big Apple began to feel a little too vast, the traveler could head north up the coast. They could sleep on the beach in some places and under bridges in others. They could stand outside an arena in Boston and listen to thousands of hockey fans scream. They might stop in Salem to pay their respects to the witches and get chased out of town by a dog. A person might wear through the soles of their shoes and get blisters breaking in new ones. They might spend days hungry and nights cold. And they might close their eyes and put their finger on a map, letting fate choose their way.

“We’ve made it!” I tell the camera, little fuzzy microphone clipped to my collar. Turning, I make sure the Welcome to Siren’s Point sign is visible behind me and smile. Viewers like it when I smile, as evidenced by the hundreds of comments about how cute my chipped incisor is. Viewers also seem to like it when I’m chased by feral dogs, but there is only so much I’m willing to do for content.

“I think we should celebrate by finding a rest stop and taking a shower,” I joke. Viewers also like it when I’m funny, which is a harder thing to replicate religiously, but I give it my best shot. Sometimes difficult to do when I’m thirsty and hungry and haven’t bathed in two weeks, when I’m so exhausted it feels like even breathing is too much work, and my socks are crusty with dried blood. I smile wider. Nobody on the internet can tell what’s real or fake anyway.

I take more footage of the town line, getting a few closer shots of the sign and the mermaid painted on it. Siren’s Point, a tiny dot on a map only 4,000 people wide, is a fishing town. Lobster fishing, to be exact, according to my internet sleuthing. Per the government website, fishing isn’t a hobby around here; it’s a legacy to be passed down through the generations. They take it seriously, and they’re proud of it.

I finish getting content with my cell phone before tucking it back into my pocket and forcing my feet onward. The little GoPro camera on my jacket gets footage that my hands are too tired to manage as I cross the town line and enter Siren’s Point. Letting my arms swing loosely down by my sides, I walk at a pace just above casual. It’s a little colder than I was expecting, but fitness is on my side. Seven hours of walking means I’m untouchable to both temperature and pain—numb to all bodily complaints.

The road is hugged by evergreens, the shoulder just wide enough to give me a little peace of mind. I walk as close to the tree line as I comfortably can, the gravel crunching under the soles of my slightly too-big boots. I have a feeling, once I stop moving, my feet are going to be the worst of the pain I’m ignoring right now. I hope Siren’s Point has a charity shop, and that charity shop is well stocked with men’s size eight.

Not a single car passes as I walk, the cool winter day still and silent but for the sound of me walking. It’s nice and exactly what I was hoping for after weeks spent on the shoulders of interstates and highways, cars blowing by fast enough for me to feel the displacement of air. I’ve seen it all—cities, country towns, the ocean, and the desert. There are things I like about them all and many I hate. But if I were to choose, I’d choose rural. I’d choose off the beaten path and near enough to a body of water that I could smell it. As I crest a hill and get my first glimpse of Siren’s Point proper, I think that I’d probably choose something like this.

I take out my phone and record some better video than what the GoPro is getting before snapping a couple of pictures. The town is postcard perfect, sitting next to a slate-gray ocean. I shiver as though I’m not boiling hot under all my layers. I love the ocean, and I’ve got a healthy respect for her, but it’s an appreciation I’ve so far held with my feet firmly planted on dry land. Tucking my hands under the straps of my backpack, I heft it upward, giving my shoulders a brief second of relief. Cracking my neck, I follow the road down to Siren’s Point.

I keep my head on a constant swivel as I walk, noting street signs and landmarks, places to hide and routes I could use to escape. I look and listen for fucking dogs and pay very close attention to traffic. The two times I’ve been struck by a vehicle were two times too many. The vague fogginess that comes from fatigue barely registers. Only a fool lets their guard down in a new place, and being tired isn’t a good excuse to let danger sneak up on me.

Of course, given that this is a tiny-ass town nobody knows about and not New York City, there isn’t any danger. At least none immediately visible. The roads are clean and relatively quiet. The sidewalks are both free of snow and speckled with salt. I haven’t walked by a single piece of trash. There are no crowds of people taking up space and forcing me to walk around, glaring and wrinkling their noses as I do. There aren’t any police sirens. When a car drives by—slowly enough to make me believe they’re actually following the speed limit—the driver waves at me.

I stare, vaguely shocked. I’m homeless, which anywhere else means I’m invisible. I can’t even pretend I don’t look like a vagabond right now, with my greasy scalp hidden under a dirty beanie and three days’ worth of dust and grime stuck to my skin with sweat. I have a hiking backpack on, for fuck’s sake. Belatedly, I wave back, the gesture feeling vaguely alien. I’ve forgotten what attention that isn’t hostile feels like.

Four times more, cars drive by, and the occupants act like I’m a member of their family and not a complete stranger. Lowering my hand as the latest of them drives by, I puff out my cheeks and come to the realization that this probably isn’t a town I can sleep rough in. Given the amount of attention I’ve received after only being here an hour, I’m thinking that this is a place where everyone knows everyone. I’m not invisible; I’m the opposite. I stick out.

“Damnit,” I mutter softly, glancing around. A pair of kids are trying to make a snowman, bundled up so much only their cheeks, eyes, and noses are visible. I turn and keep walking, always aware of how too much attention paid to children by a stranger could be misinterpreted.

I walk until I leave the residential parts and find the downtown area. The main part of town, I’m assuming, given how much busier it is. If one were to consider busy to be three pedestrians, a dog walker, and two cars parked in front of what I’m certain is a pub. The buildings are kind of cute, in a quaint, dollhouse sort of way. Each one is painted a different color, but aged and weathered like it’s been a few years since they’ve seen a fresh coat. The streetlamps look like the kind of thing a lamplighter would be in charge of, riding a bike through town early in the morning, setting them all alight with matches before pedaling off into the fog. There’s a vaguely fishy smell in the air, mixed with the salt.

I pause when I get my first view of the lobster boats Siren’s Point is famous for. I’ve never been on a boat before, but they do look pretty impressive, floating next to a long wooden pier. There aren’t very many, which surprises me. The photographs on the website made it seem like I wouldn’t be able to turn in a circle without smacking into a lobster fisherman. Turning, I walk carefully down a hill, eyes flicking around, taking it all in. I want a closer look, and the viewers will eat this up. Even better if I do actually run into a lobster fisherman.

There’s definitely more activity around the boats than there was up on Main Street. I pause, stopping in the shadowed overhang of a large building with colorful buoy things hanging off the walls. I take a picture, for research and viewership purposes, but also simply because I like the way it looks with all the colors. Tucking my phone back in my pocket, I pull my hands into my sleeves and hunch my shoulders. It’s far colder down here, with the wind coming in off the ocean, than it was up where the buildings shielded the worst of it. I stay, though, watching the group of men standing down near the dock, and further out, the small shape of what I suspect is a boat in the distance.

I squint, trying to figure out what is going on. There’s a massive truck idling nearby, the engine a low rumble in the otherwise quiet day. I decide to move a little closer, straightening my shoulders and acting like I belong. There aren’t any private property signs. I have just as much right as these guys do to be here.

As it always does, the GoPro clipped to my jacket provides a safety blanket. People don’t like being filmed. Bullies especially don’t like it. The times in the past when people have been aggressive toward me, the mention of the recording sent them on their way quick enough. Nobody wants to be caught on camera being the type of person they pretend they aren’t.

All heads turn my direction as I approach. The majority of them simply nod a greeting and go back to watching the boat come in. One man doesn’t. He watches me, and although his posture isn’t aggressive, the eye contact feels that way. I stare back, unwilling to be intimidated.

Chapter Two

DRYDEN

Iwatch the man as an excuse to ignore the marina staff. He’s a face I don’t recognize, which means tourist, since the only other option is local, and the newest one of those was Ewan Fate. The backpack is interesting, as it’s not exactly the time of year known for such a hobby. It’s also filthy and patched, like he dragged it behind himself through the woods instead of carrying it on his back. I look a little closer at his face, not caring that I’m being obvious in my perusal. Not a backpacker at all, I realize, but homeless.

He’s too far away for me to see much of his features, but the scowl is easily discernible. I raise my brows at him, letting my mouth soften into a smirk. After a moment, I turn away and go back to my silent vigil, watching my boat approach. I wish the marina staff would dispense with the small talk. I am, frankly, not in the mood. I’m frustrated and annoyed and exhausted. I’m worried about Oliver, who I only just found out, in a text from Shiloh, is in the hospital. He hadn’t told me why and hasn’t returned any of the messages I’ve left, which is so unlike him it’s setting my teeth on edge.

I’m not an idiot—if anyone got hurt coming to help Cody and me yesterday, the blame isn’t on me. Nobody who works in this business thinks like that. We all go through our days knowing shit might go wrong, and we all remain on standby to help others when they do. Yet I can’t help but picture Oliver’s young, innocent face and think about all the times we’ve sat together at the bar, the way he talks to me and understands my dry humor. If anyone had to get hurt, I wish it hadn’t been him.

I glance over at the homeless man as the boat towing the Maiden continues to get closer. He’s watching as well, turned slightly toward the water but without putting his back completely to us. I don’t bother wasting time wondering why he’s here. It’s none of my business.