At the shack, Sharon was eating French bread and smoked salmon. It was Sunday, and Banister usually told her where he’d go. Along the shore, the sea air smelled of seafood, the local industry, fish and clams sold to people from the city. Up inland, the pathways became tense and narrow. He had gone somewhere up there, looking for berries. We followed Sharon where she thought he’d have gone. It was past noon. We came to a rounded footpath that extended in two directions. Sharon said Banister would have gone uphill, had he just come this way, but she said he came here this morning. She looked the other way. The blackberries were in the hollow.