I walk a circle around the place where Mary ran away. I’m stumbling about the perimeter road, which now encircles an emptiness. Mary Dumbleton navigated this landscape when she was 10 years old. We see just enough to let us navigate a landscape. “Eyes,” my friend Heather Peters writes in her journals about Provence, “never really open.” Maybe we’re incapable of seeing the “big picture.” How much less do we know the places we visit no longer there? We know not even the ghost of a place when we visit.