Twenty yards away, the ocean crashed and retreated, and the wind was cool and bracing. Calming. An ocean, I decided, wasn’t like a lake. An ocean was alive and moving—energy flowing through it, rising up and crashing, washing against jagged, broken rock and leaving it smooth. A lake was sinister. Still. Its cold, black water suffused your every pore, and if it sucked you down, it wouldn’t leave a trace. I shivered and tried to do what Dr. Lange had always suggested—to ground myself in the present moment where the past couldn’t touch me. “It’s nice here,” I said. “Really fucking nice. Like I
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