At the foot of The Hill was a grey expanse of rolling water that stretched east to the horizon. All day the water rumbled at the edge of the road, spitting her angry, white froth against the confines of glistening boulders placed there by government trucks after the last hurricane. When night fell, she rose with a roar, revolting against the sides of the cliffs that jutted into her belly beyond the gaping mouth of the river that she drank from at her southeasterly tip. A stretch of asphalt ran along her shoulder, curving to the right just before the river to disappear in the shadows of silent green trees.