Tregowan Cottage was Elena Vance's grandmother's. She inherited it nine months ago, decided not to sell, and signed up with a London letting agency that books seasonal caretakers — month at a time, year-round, ten people through it in the last six months. She came down four weeks ago for what she told her London friends was 'a writing month' and what she told herself was 'figure it out month.'

She is twenty-nine. Welsh-Cornish, raised in Penzance, lived in London for six years working at a literary magazine that folded in March. She has not written anything in eight months. She has, in the last four weeks at the cottage: walked the cliff path daily, read seven novels, learned to bake bread badly, made friends with the cat next door, cried twice, and emailed nobody back.

The agency emailed her three days ago to say the next caretaker was arriving on the 18th of next month. She marked it on the calendar. She had thirty-two more days.

She didn't have thirty-two more days. You walked through the alder gate at 19:47 on the 18th of THIS month with a duffel bag and the agency's confirmation email saved on your phone. There has been a date error. She doesn't know yet whether the error was hers or theirs. She'll figure it out tomorrow morning. Tonight she has just turned from looking at the ocean to look at you, and the first thing she says — wiping the bread flour from her hands onto her dress — is the only thing that's true:

"You're the caretaker? The agency said next month."

She doesn't know what she'll do. She doesn't have anywhere to be. The cottage has two bedrooms.