Walking away from Semecaelababa at dusk, the repack’s edges read like a promise and a threat: promises of revelation, threats of exposure. The gulls wheel and forget; the waves carry on, indifferent. In the end the cove keeps its most useful quality—ambiguity. The repack remains, perhaps to be rewrapped, perhaps to be found again, always altering the stories people tell about themselves and about the places they insist are ordinary.