You don’t arrive at the Outer Banks. The mainland slips away mile by mile until there’s more sky than ground and the road feels temporary.

At Hatteras the tide has pulled back. The flats shine. Water an inch deep runs in braided channels, carrying light sideways. A willet steps through the shallows, stabbing at what the water left behind.

Ghost crabs have gone to ground, but their holes remain, small openings leading somewhere cooler. Offshore, pelicans rise and fold, rise and fold. A dolphin fin cuts the surface, then nothing.

Behind you the dunes hold. Sea oats grip what they can. Last year’s storm took twelve feet of beach. Next year’s will take more.

The lighthouse stands black and white along the curve. They moved it inland. The darker seam still shows.

You sit on sand still warm from the afternoon. Wind moves around you and continues on. Your hands find broken shells.

The sky turns rose, then copper, then violet. The flats darken.

The tide will return in six hours.

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