The damp fog refused to burn away, eating up their street until the suburb became still and their house an island. This was no tropical paradise, however, but a bleak craggy isle buffeted by waves. Fog or no, the island home had its own issues, and marital discord and strife made for an unpleasant existence. I say existence, as it was no life. Living always on a knife-edge, perpetually walking on proverbial eggshells, had taken its toll. Now with the creeping fog making escape from the island home difficult, it would only be a matter of time until the damp of the surrounding fog would be the least of their problems.