The wind is sharp but even here, next to the ice cold Atlantic sea, the air is warming. Spiders dart through the rocks and we only have to look down at any one spot for a few seconds before seeing another. I check my ankles. Fog hangs over the water, the sand an unrolled length of velvet in the muted light. Lauren pockets a small collection of stones. We leave with a film of salt on our lips, lungs washed. At home the stones are reexamined and shifted into patterns, hands moving like the tide to push them into place.