Embarcadero

When Marcus woke up he was on a ferry just arriving at the dock in Oakland. He stood up and walked back to the stern. A group of seagulls were squawking and batting at each other for the chunks of garbage swirling in the boat's wake. A wave of nausea rose from somewhere below deck. He closed his eyes and grabbed the railing in front of him with both hands.

He made it to the door of the coffee shop at the Jack London Inn before he remembered that his wallet was gone, lying on a sidewalk somewhere in San Francisco, or more likely scavenged by some homeless person by this time. There were three coins in his pocket: a quarter and two dimes. Not enough for coffee. Damn.

He walked up Broadway to Third Street, where a long freight was passing west down the tracks. He went into the lobby of the Double Happiness, a Chinese restaurant on the southeast corner, to use the pay phone. Emily didn't answer and for some reason the machine didn't pick up. The unused toll clattered down into the change slot.

He shuffled east along Third, as if this would make the train pass sooner. In the parking lot behind the restaurant, a kitchen worker was shooing a cluster of seagulls and pigeons away from an open dumpster with a piece of cardboard. Just then the train passed and Marcus looked across the street. The car was gone. He had the brief, odd sense of his collarbones dropping from their accustomed position to clack against his hipbones.

Hi Suk, the Korean man who ran the French restaurant on the northeast corner, was sweeping broken glass into the curb.

She's gonna kill you, bro.