You thank Brine and then you rush, because dawn-in-reverse is climbing the stains and Wren is a drum in your head.

The fog-lane has a desire path: a shortcut across pickleweed that looks like it was made by people who also rushed. It is not a corridor. It is a scar. Three steps in, the mud becomes a bowl. Fog becomes a room without doors. Your own footprints confuse you, which is rude of them.

You are not in mortal danger. You are in a lecture with wet socks. A heron you cannot see croaks like a hinge.

Brine finds you by not being lost, which is infuriating and kind. “Animal lanes follow cover and depth,” Brine says. “New scars follow pride. The tide will fill this bowl. Come out.”

You come out. Grey Stack is still there. The kelp is still south. You are humbled, which is a useful shape.