The night is thick and sultry the way the nights usually are in Florida’s panhandle. They’re standing on the boardwalk, and she can taste the salt in the wind. Her legs are sticky. The stars are fire bright where the streetlights grow dim. The ocean is a lesson on consistency.

The moon is an echo, which is to say it’s the shadow of a crescent.

They’re walking along the gravel and the pebbles are being thrown up by their shoes and there’s this sort of dust cloud gathering in the dark.

One of them laughs. It’s not a full laugh, but enough particles to hint at a human (or two) who is (are) trying.

The sky is flesh-colored at dawn.

There is the memory of headlights glaring, too little washer fluid, needing to pull in, needing to pull over, and just think for a minute.

Forehead against knees. Breathing.

No pauses to catch the weather.

Slight trembling. The weather

of a life.

I remember strange things. Her laughter, for instance. Echoing. I see her now and meth got the best of it. I mean, I don’t want to say that. I don’t want to say anything got the best of anyone. But I mean, one minute, we’re pulling into a driveway. The next minute, she’s gone.