Maeve knew a boy once whose name was Miles To Go. For a time, they were thick as thieves, a phrase that tickled them, Maeve and Miles being what they were.
Miles taught her many things, but the most useful by far was how to watch clouds banked on the horizon. A trick of the light, a shift of the eye, and clouds became islands out to sea, diminishing into the distance.
It took practice to see this way. But Maeve, who had shirked many a lesson in her time, excelled at island viewing. Some days, he said, if the fog was thick enough, islands became mountain ranges. Had she noticed? She hadn’t. Maeve wondered what else this boy might teach her, given enough time.
But one day he was gone. Miles To Go stole a no-name horse who beckoned and cajoled him over those mountains and far away. Maeve watched as he and the horse swam island to island until they were out of sight.