I’m going to write you until this pencil wears out. Until all of me wears out. I’m not sure what’s real and what’s not anymore, but these words, they feel real. Solid. And there’s a chance my letters to you will wash up on the right shore.
The wreck, the one that started all this, lies a hundred feet under the Atlantic, close to Key Largo. Ten miles offshore, you’ll find a place where the water turns blue-black and the salt spray tastes different, coppery. And you’ll feel it as soon as your boat passes over the spot. Something wrong beneath your skin, as if the blood moving through your heart has gone sour, like old milk.
I had Random.org select a page today and it selected page 174.
When I got home I found out that Baarbara had been caught stealing red-hoofed. Even our goats are kleptomaniacs!
Mum was shouting at her in Chinese. I asked what had happened and Mum said that Baarbara had chewed through the last of the fence post, escaped and sneaked through the kitchen into the shop. Mum heard a ‘ping’, and when she went to investigate, Baarbara was standing there munching away on twenty pounds’ worth of fivers.