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.