It was the sea salt on my body that had led that summer-brown, Jersey-trusting girl to me like I was a blue block of salt strategically placed for pleasure in the first pasture between the barn and the pond. The sea led her tongue across me and wore me down in my holder and followed me home to the Valley, where the shoreline is long, and notably irregular; where the tide rushes into the Bay of Fundy like fire in the wake of an earthquake, like blood into the groin of a girl.