“But can’t you see? It’s not rising behind water, but trees. That’s Goose Island over there. It’s three miles from the mainland.”
“What’s Goose Island?”
“It’s where we go fishing through the ice in winter.”
“Anybody live there?”
“No.”
“Any cabins?”
“No.”
“Then—”
Florence stopped herself. She was about to say that outside a cabin, with no fire, drenched to the skin, they would be chilled to death, when a voice seemed to whisper, “One thing at a time. Only one.”
“We’ll swim for it,” she said quietly. “How far do you think it is?”