She makes herself get up at dawn to walk along the shore. No one is around then. It eases her into the unsafe world; otherwise she would hide in bed all day.
The police car usually passes her on the way back. He salutes. Her mouth laughs.
Today she risks going as far as the village. The tide tumbles and trips over garbage in the bay: broken branches, a shopping trolley upended like a beaten wife, seaweed, smashed beer bottles.
Beyond the wreckage the water is smooth, reflecting a sky rubbing sleep from its eyes, a white house and the masts of sailboats waiting like her.