Everyone on the island grew up fearing them. A fear of the ones that opened in the woods, between the fir trees, exposing vast root systems—and nothing below. The ones near their homes that started as dimples, which they dutifully filled with dirt, packing them tight, as if they could bury the memories of the ones who disappeared.

A healthy fear, her dad told her.

An instructive fear, the town elders taught her.

From Scow’s home, even at dusk, the smacks of shovels came from all around. She pulled on the rope to test the tension. It spanned 850 feet, the ends wrapped around a pair of her strongest trees. Scow could only guess the distance she and her daughter would need to cross, but to her it looked right—and just as impossible.

She checked the hold of the linen cloth that was wrapped around her torso, swaddling her daughter, Spelterini, close to her breast. She felt the baby squirm—Spelterini would need to be nursed soon. Scow imagined her daughter listening to the clenching fist that was Scow’s heart; she imagined her warmed by the burning rise and fall of Scow’s lungs.