There was the morning up on Drake Island when the ponytailed roofer found Marina curled up in the fireplace of a mansion under construction out on Channel Bluff. It was Monday morning, and she had been missing almost thirty hours.
She started looking around and pointing first in one direction, then another, and saying something. “Look out,” he said and she nodded, her eyes lit bright, and said, “Look.”
“Look?” he repeated.
“Look,” she answered, and pointed.
“What was beautiful?” Helen had asked the young man, puzzled.
“Everything, man. That’s what was so amazing. There’s a killer view of the straits, but she was pointing at everything, you know, this dead madrona tree out back, and these bands of sunlight coming through the roof of the garage.”