There are no keys in the ignition, but there's a knife in my boot and an extra handgun in the glove compartment. I sit there for a long time with my hands on the wheel, ten and two, staring out the window and listening to Dexter pant excitedly at my side.

The island's a wilderness in it's own way, but there's almost always someone else around. Here, there's a kind of eerie silence, a vast, oppressive emptiness I feel all the way down into my gut. Like we're the only people in the world, but not in a good way.

Kicking open the driver door, I stick my head out and call, "You fuckin' comin', or what?"