The island had weathered worse storms, those who had always lived there would say. Erika crawled out of bed and crept into the hall; she thrust her feet into Isak’s green Wellingtons and unlocked the front door. The wind whipped at her nightdress and hair, lifted her and carried her down to the sea. She fell and hurt her knees, and that scared her. First because of the fall and then because of the sound of her own thin voice. It wasn’t a terrified, shout-above-the-noise scream, it was almost nothing, and she rolled around and up into a sitting position. It was dark and she wasn’t able to pick out the grit and dirt that had gotten stuck in the gashes, and there was sticky blood all over her hands, knees, and nightdress. She got up and ran on; ran and hobbled and fell and got up and ran again. She waded out into the waves and stood upright with legs planted far apart, her feet firmly in the Wellingtons. She opened her mouth and the wind tore at her and she wanted to shout louder than it, make it be quiet.
