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"Oh my God."

"Gross."

"I told you guys."

"It's like he washed ashore from a shipwreck."

"Is he dead?"

"Oh my God."

Their hushed voices fell over him like a blanket, his skin warming with embarrassment as they whispered. He could feel their stares, feel them pointing and inching closer. He wanted to be alone.

"He's breathing."

"Well, at least he isn't dead."

"Maybe he's unconscious."

He wished they'd go away and leave him to his misery. He moved, so slightly they didn't even see, hugging the thin cotton blanket to his chin and taking a deep breath - the smell of home.

A stick poked him in the back.

Ignore it, he thought. He screwed his eyes tighter shut.

A rock hit him in the head, followed by a waterfall of tinkling laughter.

"Oh my God, Eric," a girl's voice rang out, "I can't believe you did that."

Tears fought their way out of his tightly squeezed eyelids, and he felt one - warm and salty - cling to the very tip of his nose.

Another rock hit him.

He couldn't take it.

"GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!" he screamed, sitting up suddenly, with the velocity and surprise-attack of a wild cat. "GO HOME YOU MISCREANT RUG RATS!" His throat and voice were raw from smoking, his eyes blazing with passion.

The kids scattered, panicked, bolting in different directions to get out from under the pier. The girls screaming, the guys swearing and breathing hard, trying to catch their breath so their fright would be masked.

He watched them go.

Part of him regretted it as their retreating backs melted into the thick fog that covered the water's edge and snaked its way up from the beach to the space under the pier where he'd crammed himself the night before.

He sighed and laid back down on his stomach, his eyes watching the ocean as it licked and tugged, slowly nearing him, creeping up like a bad habit.

He grabbed his guitar and his city-issued blanket and crept down the rocks to the ground, landing in the swirling mess of foot prints that had belonged to the teenagers. High tide was coming.

He had to move on.