It’s never like you planned it, he said. Think you’re getting somewhere? No. Just a trace. That’s all you see, he picked up a small stone and threw it in the water. One minute, you’re here, and the next, you’re gone, the kid listened. He threw a rock, too. The old man sat down in the sand and took out a flask. The two shared communion. Bread was broken. Sourdough he’d baked that morning. The starter he had gotten from his late wife. A pinch of yeast, flour, and water. It’s funny what people leave behind.

The two ate bread and passed the whisky back and forth. He took big gulps. And the kid, small sips. They watched the tide roll in. There was silence. A dog ran by.