on the western side of the island there are a series of sandstone caves

We four vacate the house without uttering a word. We drive carefully through the cluttered trees, the hollow spaces left between. There is only the light, a diamond sky. Wouldn’t they like to know where we are going?

The embryo making noises, when she could be still and silent–pushing and stretching, muffled hiccups. We pass several streams half hidden among the trees and cliffs. Is there anyone out there? The toddler says, pushing knitted brows together.

At the tide line, the cottage waits. Soon it will be noticed. The dwelling hacks and spits the key out into his hands. The sight of a broken branch discarded alone on the beach with the wind passing through its grasp is all the atmosphere she needs.

Their footprints in the sand fill with water, and then wash away. A few days away, the city, left calling.

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