On the other side of the world, equally far away from San Francisco, a young boy named Carter plays on the beach. He has no parents, as they had both been killed in an accident shortly after his birth. At least that's what his uncle tells him whenever Carter dares to ask. The price of this little bit of redundant information? One beating with his uncle's belt.

     Today, however, Carter has not payed this price, nor has he been given the repetitive information on the death of his parents. Today Carter wanders along the beach, if this shoreline could be called a one. The beach is made not from small bits of silica, as many beaches commonly are, but is contrived from a conglomeration of rocks. Some are large, large as his head, others are small. Some are sharp, like knives that cut into the flesh of his feet, but most are smooth. The sea has worn into the rocks over time, like his uncle's words have worn into Carter.

     It is on this beach that Carter finds a body. He makes his way over to it, carefully picking his path so as to avoid the sharp rocks and step only on the smooth ones. The body is that of a boy, older than Carter, with curly hair, curlier than Carter's. Not knowing what to do he sits, watching the waves tumble over the boy until his reverie is interrupted.

"Carter!"

     Carter looks up to see the face of his uncle staring down at him, face weathered and worn. His breath smells of alcohol; he has been drinking again. Carter is not surprised. In his state, who wouldn't drink?

"Hello Uncle Renn."

"What are you doin' down here so early?"

"I found a dead boy."

     Carter points his finger at the boy lying in the rocks. Uncle Renn trains his eyes on the body and emits a rasping huff.

"We all die sooner or later, Carter," he muses, a cough punctuating the end of his sentence. "Sometimes sooner than we realize."

     He pulls Carter to his feet. The dead man reminds him too much of his debt and of his own unmalleable fate.

"Come on, we're goin' on a trip."

"Where?"

"San Francisco."