Rehearsal is not pretend-play. It is the work of don’t until don’t is in your feet.

You stand with Pell’s numbers in your mouth: spring flood climbing, wind east-tending, bar already maned. You pick the stranded spar as the closest anyone gets to Grey Stack. You pick the fog-lane as the watch-path. You pick the Slip as a place nobody puts a skiff until the rip lies down.

Pip recites the gap: darker mouth, foam shoulders, no feeding it.

Aunt Pell nods once, which is a parade.

You can take this competence to the dusk bar, where competence will have to argue with a crowd.

You can still decide that a private right answer is not a village answer, and go make the Post do its job.