I was dreaming about cornbread when Jay woke me up. It was 15 minutes shy of 10pm in Harrington, Maine. The back-to-back double shifts of Memorial Day weekend had wound to an end. I’d passed out face down on our mattress after one glass of fourth-day vinegar wine.
“They’re runnin’. I just walked down,” he said. “You still wanna go?”
I rolled over on my back, pinched my eyelids shut, and bolted into a situp. As I pulled rain boots over my blistered heels, Jay offered me the last hit off his ashing joint. Bundled up in a sweatshirt, oversized raincoat, and winter hat, we trudged up the path through the woods. Off in the distance we could hear our eight-year-old border collie, Hank, dislodging himself from the mudflats and galloping up the bank after our bobbing headlamp beacons.