Jeremy knew at once that he need go no further north than the Isle of Skye. He embarked for Portree and sailed across violet waters under a mizzling rain, with only an occasional maw screeching aft and, far off, a few shearwaters in flight so exquisite as to nullify any notion of assault. He landed in a place of dreams.

The first time the new phone rang, F. and his wife were pleased. They had purchased the top-of-the-line instrument on a recent shopping trip, one of a number of such trips to equip the new townhome.

She sat in a lounge chair with her long toes pointed towards the water. It was a Tuesday, she thought, but that didn’t mean anything. She reached for her drink. Mornings were no longer a time of day, just after she got up. She assumed it was still earlier than noon based on the angle and the heat of the sun.