Jess was only ten when the first pods washed up on the shore. She'd been standing with her toes dug into the sand, letting the cold Atlantic Ocean swirl around her ankles, daring herself to venture ... [+]
Knox had been hanging around 8th street since before they put in the ATMs. We didn't know where he lived, but that's where he'd been ever since I'd moved here about ten years ago. He used a cracked Route 66 mug to collect money, and if you gave him some, he'd toast you with the mug, like it was full of drink. He'd get all poetic if you crumpled in bills rather than clinked coins. He told me once he'd wanted to be a poet but "missed the boat." He looked to be in his 50s—scraggily beard, wild hair. He wore an old 49ers jersey every day with the name Hearst on the back, #20. Work pants. He wore a