I visited Mrs. Romero in her quiet little house on a hill by the southern coast of Maine. The salty stench of seaweed hung heavily in the air while I slowly trudged towards her discolored house. I stood in front of her door and pressed the rusty doorbell. “Bzzzzz,” the bell led out a loud whirring sound. As I waited for her to open the door, the gusts of winter ocean breeze gashed my face like countless bee stings. I pulled up my red scarf and rubbed my hands impatiently. After what felt like a whole hour, I heard loud footsteps from striding to the door. “Oh, there you are,” she said as she unbolted her door locks one by one, “I’ve been waiting for you.”