Finch tells me: The man sits at the table against the wall, the one that always fills last because it is under the air conditioning vent, and is almost always either too hot or too cold, depending on the season of the year. He is unremarkable to look at–black-rimmed glasses, black jeans, a brown leather […]

Bez sits in the dirt and gravel with her back against the rusted iron post that pokes like a metal finger out of the ground in front of the old tackle shop. She takes her sketchbook and pencils out of her bag and opens to a blank page, while I poke around the building itself. […]