AT NIGHT THE OCEAN IS SO LOUD AND SO CLOSE THAT I LIE awake, sure it’s going to beat against the house’s supports until we all crumble onto the rocks and break into pieces. Our house is creaky, gray, weather stained. It’s probably held a dozen desperate families who found their cure and left before we’d even heard about this island.
We are a groan away from a watery death, and we’ll all drown without even waking up, because we’re so used to sleeping through unrelenting noise.
Sometimes I draw. Usually I keep as still as I can. I worry any movement from me will push us over the edge....