Sand. Wet Sand. Water.

Where am i?

The taste of salt. Turning ’round, he takes in his surroundings. The beach stretches before him for what seems like miles. Small waves rush in with an eagerness that belies the futility with which they foam and froth away into the sand.

It’s raining.

Spitting rain mixes with a cloying fog, the kind you only experience near the ocean, the kind that seems to feed on moisture that it draws through your pores. It’s not raining hard but his clothes are soaked through.

I must have been out here for quite a while. Or …

He turns again and his eyes follow the footfalls in reverse, expecting them to show that he plodded forth from the water like some “monster” from Scooby-Doo.

If it weren’t for you meddling kids.

That sets him laughing, but only for a second. His breath catches in his throat when he sees that the footprints don’t veer from their path. He’s been walking in a straight line for as far as he can see.

How did I get here?

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