It was my third summer working on the island, and I was completing my last delivery of the night. As I came around the corner, I saw my favorite view of the coast from the highest point by the north lighthouse. It was just before dusk, and the last few bands of orange light descended the rocks by the shore. My job wasn’t much fiscally, but it reminded me of a world that I could make sense of. There was only one glass bottle left in the crate resting on the handlebars of my bike as I turned the corner headed downhill along the cliff. The island was a popular destination for retreats headed by churches on the mainland around this time of year. I always received flyers and cards warning me of my eternity of suffering, but today someone left a bible on the seat of my bike while I was on a delivery. It was a strange sight, although not entirely shocking. The book was frayed at its spine and covered in sand, but it looked like it had been quite beautiful at one point. I wasn’t sure what I believed of a higher power, but I kept it anyway, laying it beside the bottle. The downhill path was steep and rocky for a few miles, and as the sun sank below the horizon, a burst of lightning took its place. The rain seemed to begin as a downpour, with no warning drops. In moments like these I found myself wondering if there was some truth in the book I now carried. My clothes grew heavy and chunks of my hair clung to all sides of my face. As the rain cascaded down my face, threatening my airways, the lighthouse returned to my line of sight. I was unafraid, and that was my last memory of the night. I woke to the sound of the waves and sand in my eyes, wincing as I noticed the shards of glass piercing my arm. As I looked around for my bike, all I saw was one tire. I imagined the rest was claimed by the sea.