After a laundromat shower, $10 for 30 minutes, our skin is newborn-soft, burnished from heat-lamps and nozzle pressure. Our jugs, filled outside ShopRite, weigh us down as we climb the hills to our cabins. When we bear water over the paths, through the forest, we know its rarity; the water table so far down its reservoirs elude the dowsers. We fill our cups; we taste glaciers, fireweed, coal in the sea cliffs. Though we live by the ocean, we crave freshwater. Our ancestors crawled out of that salty pool. This water sustains us. We’ve carried it here with our own hands.