The key sat on my kitchen counter for eleven days before I booked a flight to Sydney.
The drive from the Sydney airport to the Cabot Trail took nearly two hours. I had rented a small sedan, and the man at the counter had kindly printed me a paper map when I told him my phone’s GPS made me nervous on unfamiliar roads.
April on Cape Breton still carries winter in its bones. The trees along the highway were only beginning to think about budding, the sky low and the color of old pewter.
I drove through the Englishtown ferry crossing and up into the highlands, watching the Gulf appear and disappear between the hills like a rumor.
I had imagined the cottage as a small, weathered thing.
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