Wesley regarded the small stone that lay several feet from the steel toes of his work boots. It bobbed as if it were a piece of driftwood on the white-crested waves that licked endlessly at the beach’s outstretched hand. He’d never been a skilled stone skipper; his father tried to teach him each summer, but after the incident when one of his stones ricocheted off seemingly nothing and broke his sister’s nose, he refused to try again. As he watched the stone now, he was certain he’d thrown it far out past the shallows, but he supposed he had miscalculated. Even he knew he wasn’t such a horrendous skipper that he could cause a stone to float.

The floating stone swept back and forth, in with every new wave’s crest and out again down the waves’ backs. It moved as if pulled on a designated line; like it was tied to an invisible string that only allowed it to go so far before it was reeled back.

The beach was empty save for the shrieking gulls, but even they had quieted as grey clouds deepened in shade. The flocks that formerly flew overhead hunkered down on the sun-bleached logs behind Wesley where the rocky sand met the boardwalk. Ebony tossed his head from side to side, the husky-malamute cross staring at the birds and looking back at Wesley as if to ask why they didn’t run from him anymore.

Sarah had told him not to come home for a couple of hours. The recent move had been rough on her; the stress of leaving her friends and family a few short weeks after giving birth had been manifesting as severe mood swings and lashing out at Wesley more than she used to. This afternoon, Wesley had been mistakenly crunching kettle chips in the kitchen while Sarah was upstairs in their daughter, Annabelle’s room, which resulted in an unceremonious kick-out until dinner. He had no doubt, as he leashed Ebony and drove the pick-up to the nearest beach he could find, that dinner would be something with shellfish; he would be banished to eating a power bar in the bedroom until the allergen was scrubbed from the linoleum countertops.

Wesley ran a hand through his damp hair. The air had become thick with gathering rain since he arrived at the beach, leaving his forehead and cheeks slick with condensation. For some reason his eyes also stung. He whistled to Ebony, still watching the stone on the waves.

“Let’s go, boy.” Ebony came to his heel and Wesley scratched him between the ears.

Wesley didn’t move immediately. Ebony waited patiently, poised to bound homeward at a moment’s notice. Wesley sighed and turned away from the sea; his legs first, then his torso and arms, and finally his head, as if cords snapped one by one around his form to set him free.

Facing the boardwalk, Wesley noticed a man walking toward him from the direction of the parking lot. Ebony barked once to announce his presence to the newcomer. The man, hands stuffed in the pockets of a faded, grey zipped hoodie, nodded to Wesley. Wesley returned the gesture.

“Not the best day for a stroll, eh?” the man remarked, pausing on the boardwalk in front of Wesley’s path.

Wesley shrugged toward Ebony. “Got to walk this beast, rain or shine.”

The man locked eyes with Ebony. Ebony barked again and planted his feet firmly on the rocks, head low. Wesley nudged the mutt with his knee.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” said the man.

“My family moved here a couple weeks ago,” Wesley said. “I had a job transfer.”

“Construction moves you around a lot?”

“HVAC,” Wesley corrected. “But, yes.”

“Oh, sorry, just assumed.” The man shuffled his feet and looked once more at Ebony. “Nice dog you got there.”

Ebony growled and dug his paws into the beach. “Thanks,” said Wesley. “He’s a little testy today; not sure why. Normally he’s friendly with everyone.”

Wesley tried to calm the dog with a pat on the head, but Ebony snapped at him. Wesley withdrew his hand in surprise. Ebony clawed at the sand like he was digging for a bone and bounded away suddenly.

“Ebony!”

The dog didn’t heed him and ran off down the beach. Wesley gave the man a defeated gesture. “Well, it was nice talking to you, but I better go wrangle my beast.”

The man watched him with mild intensity. “I’ll help you.”

Wesley waved dismissively. “Oh, there’s no need. He’s probably spooked by something.”
“I insist.” The man stepped off the boardwalk onto the driftwood. “I’m the one who spooked him, after all.”

Wesley waved again, more firmly than before, a worm of dread wriggling in his gut. “No, thank you, it’s really okay. Have a nice day.”

The man inched closer to the waterside, hands still in his pockets. “Why don’t you want my help?”

Waves lapping at his ankles alerted Wesley to where he stood—he realized he had unwittingly retreated into the water. He whistled, but Ebony had disappeared somewhere out of earshot, and he refused to take his eyes off the man in front of him. He wondered where the trace of unease pooling between his ribs was coming from.

“I don’t need it, that's all,” Wesley said. “But I appreciate the offer.”

The man stepped into the water in front of him right as the waves made their retreat, but they did not raise their assault against his bare feet. “I wish you would reconsider.”

Wesley’s vision spun out of focus for a second. When it cleared, he stood even further out in the water. Something bobbed against his knee and he glanced down to see the floating stone between his legs. He could only regard it for a moment before it was sucked beneath the surface with a splash. Wesley’s stomach dropped and he looked back up at the man, still watching him.

The slimy, algae-slick stones shifted under his boots. Wesley stumbled and his foot came down hard on a particularly slippery spot. Then he was beneath the surface, staring up at the darkness swirling beyond the foam, the stone digging into his spine.

Wesley woke face down on the beach. His chest heaved and he coughed, sputtering seawater and pieces of seaweed into a mucus-filled stain on the sand. He rolled onto his back and rubbed salt from his eyes.

The ocean roared in his ears. He sat up slowly, his weak and waterlogged limbs pushing off the ground. His muscles were rigid, indicating he had been motionless for hours. The water was several feet from where he lay; the tide had come in and gone back out already; he supposed at some point, it had washed him ashore. Or perhaps the man had dragged him out.

Wesley threw his head from side to side. He was alone. “Ebony?”

Crickets chirped in the brush under the boardwalk. “Ebony!”

Wesley muttered curses and staggered to his feet. The last thing he wanted to do was explain to Sarah the need to post missing posters for a dog he had begged her to let him keep when they first got married. He called and whistled until his throat was dry, but Ebony did not reappear. Maybe he’s found his way home.

He managed to clamber up the logs to the boardwalk and lurched through the gravel parking lot to his truck. His keys, thankfully, were still in his pocket. He didn’t remember leaving the door open, but was glad for it as he threw his sluggish body onto the seat and felt around the centre console for his phone. He couldn’t find it.

He pulled himself into a proper sitting position and fumbled the key into the ignition. The truck choked on the intrusion and coughed fumes into the night, but rumbled to life after a little coaxing.

As he backed out of the parking lot and drove down the narrow road to get to the main street, he rolled a wad of saliva back and forth with his tongue to rid his teeth of grit and sand. Once the wad was significant, he cranked down the window and spat onto the pavement. He miscalculated the distance, or didn’t spit with enough power, and the viscous fluid dribbled from between his lips and streaked across the outside of the door, smearing the dirt caked on the chipped red paint. He didn’t bother rolling up the window again; the wind whipped into his eye sockets and eased the ever-present burn.

The clock on the dash read sometime after two in the morning—Wesley’s vision wouldn’t stay clear long enough for him to focus on the numbers; that first number may have been a two or just as easily a three. It was difficult enough to keep his vision centred on the pavement racing beneath the car. Focusing on the clock was impossible.

The vehicle jerked into the short driveway in front of the cottage. It was sky blue during the day but a sick, shadowy grey at this hour. Wesley was barely able to keep his feet under his leaden weight as he dropped from the truck and stumbled up the overgrown steps. With a shaking hand, he struggled to put the house key in the lock, praying he would be able to sneak in and up to bed without waking Sarah or Annabelle.

The key sunk into the mechanism. The door opened too early. Wesley nearly fell into the house as the door was yanked open from the inside. As he regained his footing, he expected to look into the angry, tired eyes of his exhausted wife, ready to tear a strip off of him for staying out this late.

Wesley stared at a man wearing his favourite pyjamas, the ones Sarah liked the most, smelling of his cologne and a mild, recent sweat. A man who looked uncannily like himself.

Wesley’s stomach churned and roiled like the sea after dark. “Where’s Annabelle?” His voice scratched the back of his throat, foreign and invasive on his ears. “What did you do to my wife?”

“A little late for a stroll, my friend.”

Wesley’s heart leapt to pierce him between the eyes, a stabbing pain that reminded him for half a moment that the corners of his eye sockets were caked in mud. He raised his arms to seize the man, to pull him out of the house and beat him senseless on the driveway, but his limbs refused to budge, stiff like a dead animal locked in rigor-mortis. He fell to one side, smashing onto the porch and landing belly down with his nose plastered between the slats. The seawater in his gut boiled and bubbled up his chest and into his swollen lungs.

The last thing he knew was the feeling of his tongue falling heavy under a mouth full of sand.