Aftermath

On weekend mornings he drove out to the beach. The marine layer always hung overhead, but he didn’t mind; it was easier on the dog. Parked on the street the meters weren’t active ‘til noon. He got warm on the walk to the sand. Just past the canals, he smelled oil and burning plastic, then felt the air slightly warm. Down an alley he saw the remnants of a truck: black smoke tendrils rising into the sky, roof scorched, glass blown out across the pavement, embers smoldering in the bed, tailgate long ago removed. 

He paused, looking around for a witness, someone else who could call the authorities. Instead, his dog pulled him down the sidewalk, eager to run. When they hit the sand, he unlatched the dog’s harness. It took off, kicking clouds of sand behind its stride, headlong into the mist until all he could see was its silhouette.

No. 132