way I always do, to say hello to Nile.
He wasn’t there.
In his place was a tall glass vase full of dried pampas grass and a framed print that said, in fancy gold script, Salt in the Air, Sand in Our Hair.
I stood there for a full minute.
Then I started looking.
I looked behind the couch. Under the cushions. In the bookcase. In the cabinet under the TV.
I found him in the kitchen drawer by the back door. The junk drawer. The one with rubber bands
