The Other Hand

The new entry was there when she came down from the lamp on Thursday night.

It was not in Elias's hand. The letters leaned forward as if in a hurry, and the ink was still tacky when she touched it.

Don't trust the path. Don't trust the boat. Trust the light.

She sat with the book on her knees until the sky went pale. Out on the water, something that was not the supply boat was making for the jetty.

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