Alice was crouched on the beach, building cathedrals in the damp sand when Peter arrived. He stood for a minute or two while she smoothed the last few grains from a steeple, then helped her to stand. He kissed her before she could speak.
“Not that I’m complaining,” she said, “but what was that for?”
“Something I wanted to do last night as you were getting in the cab.”
“Why didn’t you, then?”
“Didn’t want to rush things,” he shrugged. “People get hurt that way.”
“So why did you now?”
“We’re further along here. Speaking of here, any idea where we are this time?”
“The shore, of course. Where things wash up.”

Away up the beach, the sand gave way to dirt and grass and the occasional tree. In the other direction, through a shimmer only vaguely suggestive of water, the ground dropped away in a shelf to the junkyard. Peter walked down to the stuff-that-was-not-water and looked out. The pillar of flame, so large from up close, was but a speck on the horizon.
“It’s so… big.”
“Poetic.”
He laughed, punching her on the arm. “You know what I mean. I wonder how far it is to the other shore.”
“I don’t think it works like that,” Alice shook her head. “I think the only thing on the other side is nothing.”
“What about the church?”
“That’s out there somewhere. An island. Not the only one, either.”
Peter turned to her seriously. “How do you know these things? Have you been coming here for a long time?”
“On and off as long as I remember, but never so regularly before you. I just know, though. That’s how dreams work. It’s why you don’t question it when you can fly or become president or dance a samba with a potted plant.”
“Do you know why you’re here, then? Why I’m here?”
“No,” she frowned. “But whatever the reason is, it’s out there somewhere.”