In the morning, before they checked out of the inn, Mac and Afton took a walk along the beach. They held gloved hands while a chilling breeze whipped their scarves and nipped at their cheeks. Yet, they barely noticed. The water of the sound appeared crystal clear and cold, the waves lazy, their foam like icy fingers inching up the beach. Once in awhile Mac kicked at a smooth stone wedged in the sand or an odd piece of driftwood. They were entirely alone. Not even a gull or sand piper ventured out in the open as yet; no doubt, too cold to fish for breakfast this early.
"Where are you from?" he asked, glancing off to the gray horizon.
"Do you mean where do I come from originally?"
He turned his gaze back to her. "Yes, your place of birth."
"Salem," she answered without hesitation
