The Rip
Police lights strobed small and insistent at the marina, a string of ants around a spill of sugar.
Nick thought about the dream again—the black jet, the faces he loved going under—and tasted pennies. He forced breath in and out, in and out, like counting burns in a set.
His phone buzzed yet again. He didn’t look. He couldn’t. Rachel did. “It’s Frank,” she said. “He says he’s got… books.” She made a face. “And holy water.”
“Fantastic,” Nick said, dry enough to crack. “Maybe we can baptise the fucking ocean.”
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