AFTER HE AWOKE, HE THOUGHT FOR A LONG TIME.

There was no hope. And when there was no hope, there were two choices: despair or revenge.

The cowardly and powerless despaired. He would revenge. Revenge ‐ the word itself gave him strength. But he must be careful, clever. There were things he didnʹt know, things he couldnʹt remember. He remembered the words, but not where they came from ‐ some old book, It didnʹt matter; he made the words his own: ʺVengeance is mine.ʺ If he hadnʹt lost his heart, the words would have been inscribed on it:

Vengeance is mine.

Vengeance is mine.

Vengeance is mine.

ʹLISTEN. ITʹS SO EERIE.ʺ

The night mist, smelling as salty as the ocean, swirled around Ivy and her best friend, Beth. The old‐fashioned yard swing on which they sat creaked to a halt.

ʺListen,ʺ Dhanya said again. ʺIt’s moaning.ʺ ʺGet a grip, Dhanya,ʺ Kelsey replied.

She was sprawled on a white Adirondack chair between the swing and the cottage doorstep, where Dhanya sat. ʺHavenʹt you ever heard a foghorn?ʺ

ʺOf course I have. But tonight it sounds so sad, like itʹs—ʺ

ʺMoaning. . mourning. . soughing. . sighing, wailing, waiting for her lover who will never return from the sea,ʺ Beth said, then reached in her pocket and pulled out a small notepad and pen to scribble down the foghornʹs contribution to her next romantic epic.

Kelsey threw back her head and hooted. ʺYou havenʹt changed, Beth. Even carrying around that old clicking pen. Why donʹt you type on your iPhone?ʺ

ʺHere?ʺ Beth replied. ʺWhere famous writers have scribbled on paper by the light of hurricane lamps burning whale oil, as rain mercilessly lashed their shingled shacks, and not far from their door the wild surf—ʺ