It doesn’t take too long to figure out there’s no such thing as perfect. The island is a giant radioactive rock. Diseased ticks wait in the grass. Widow makers in the trees clatter and drop during a gusty day in the forest. I drive to work and play significant music. It ushers in the glory of another day. The sun beams on the water, and the surface is a static screen of brilliant diamonds. A white-tailed deer crosses the road, stepping on the tar like a toddler in her mother’s high heels.