Burn for Burn [antikvár]

The morning fog has painted everything white. It's exactly like one of my rabbit-hole dreams, where I get trapped, suspended in a cloud, and I can't seem to wake myself up.Then the foghorn blares, the mist breaks into lace, and I see Jar Island, spread out along the horizon just like in one of Aunt Bette's paintings.That's when I know for sure that I've done it. I've actually come back.One of the workers ties the ferry to the dock with a thick