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It is a land of moss and fog and dark sand and dripping needles—and green, in every imaginable shade. Of rot and of life: raccoons, ferns, salmon, salamanders. One year the wind was so strong it ripped off the barn roof and snapped our trees. There is so much rain here. Torrential rain. Rain that floods rivers and schools. I remember being wet and cold a lot. I remember running track in the rain and driving to class in the rain. And falling asleep to the sound of the rain, thundering on the front porch roof just below my window. My thick braid was always damp at its core, wild curls reaching in all directions for the moisture in the air. I smell wet wool sweaters and muddy work boots and smoke from the fireplaces of farmhouses. In this place men speak little but always mean what they say. Words feel valuable here. I am safe, in this land of cool grey mist.