Dad, from Chapter 2

Mostly, what happened to Dad seemed like a black and white movie, distant and flat; events that happened over there, away from me. But sometimes I remembered fragments: my sister keening, the feeling of being very cold, like I was falling and falling; the front steps of our house at 121 Seventh Avenue in the inner Richmond District of San Francisco, tiled in a black-and-white mosaic; two men dragging a half-conscious Lee up those same stairs and into the house, his head falling forward on his chest; somber men in suits standing guard over us in front of the house . . . This talk of my Dad’s death made me both eager and terrified; stories about his murder came in flashes and shocks, often by accident. Stories of his life were more complete, told to me over and over again, like favorite bedtime stories. Even now, his absence is a mystery. Sometimes I feel ridiculous in my curiosity, like the baby bird from the story, Did you know my father?

But I want to run away from it, for fear—if I come too close—his death will swallow me, too.

Agate Beach, from Chapter 2

Kara, Ruby, and I were best friends. We dug in the sand at Agate Beach for smooth red, green, and blue agates and the brighter shards of bottle-green and blue beach sea glass. Atlow tide, we’d walk carefully along the edges of tide pools, looking for hermit crabs, sea snails, and starfish in pink, orange, red, and purple. We’d gently poke sea anemones to feel them close slowly over our fingers, like soft, cold mouths. When the tide came in, we waited as long as we dared before running back to shore.

Max and Chau, from Chapter 17

My wolves loved the beach. We’d pile into the car with all their gear—water bottles, water dish, snacks, leashes, ratty dog towels I’d bought at yard sales—and drive Shoreline Highway along the coast to Muir Beach, or Stinson. Each trip began with a ritual: Once on the beach, I unleashed them, threw up my arms, and yelled, “Go play!” They raced into the water and then ran in ever-widening circles, Max loping and grinning, Chau, born with bad hips, a little slower, but determined to keep up.

 Later, she dug little dens in the sand and dragged huge pieces of driftwood through the waves. Max sometimes trailed small canines that looked suspiciously like prey, freaking both the dogs and their owners out. I’d wave, smile cheerfully, and call him back to me.

If it was hot, I’d build a shelter of scratchy driftwood boards and an old sheet I’d packed, and when they were tired, we’d settle under the shelter and picnic. Raw turkey dogs for them, a sandwich for me, potato chips for all. On the ride home, they were wet, sandy, and content, and they slept as hard as children.