The jet-puff marshmallow clouds slide across the sky like greased skates. The pockets of sunlight punch through their thick hide like a boy scout’s flashlight at summer camp.

The town announcement speakers go off at least five times a day. The voices range from a schoolchild cautioning safety as elementary kids return home— to the brusque male advisor detailing the weather or illness quota.

I sit in a semi-opened staff room as the winter winds whip through the windows. The carbon dioxide monitor on the desk has a temperature gauge that reads fifty degrees Fahrenheit. I’ve given up any pretense of formal attire with my flannel jacket covering my coaching hoodie. I scribble notes in my pocket journal about the day or lines of dialogue that pop into my head. I copy the literary gems I find as I read through the works of more established writers. As I pick through their nests, I feel like a magpie, stealing anything that shines.

On the weekends, I traverse the island in my tiny car. I alternate between listening to spooky tales and blasting music. I stop anywhere that feels inviting— shrines, beaches, random roadside openings. It feels like open road therapy as I lose myself to the tarmac for the daylight hours.

On Sundays, I put my big headphones on and call home— even though the calls reach different cities. I cycle through my loved ones as I hear voices and stories from across the ocean. I’ll pace my tiny room and fill my coffee mug as we trade small gestures of affection. I’ll look out at the bay from my balcony and find it curious how normal the view has become.