Off the coast of Georgia, the Atlantic flattens into long pale stretches of sand that seem to go on without hurry. Marshland folds into forest, forest gives way to dune, and nothing holds a fixed line for long. Cumberland Island sits in that blur between land and water, reached only by ferry and left just as easily. People come for a few hours, sometimes a weekend, then drift away again with salt still on their shoes and not much else to carry back. It rarely becomes familiar in the way places on the mainland do. Somewhere further north on the island, an older woman has spent most of her life staying put in that shifting landscape, moving through it slowly, watching what changes and what refuses to.
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