Fifty-One
Underway
Humboldt is all too happy to eat my sandwich, once I pick out the yucky tomato and pickles, of course. My canine calamity has a discerning palate. And I have to tear it into small pieces or else he’ll swallow the whole thing in one bite, choke, and vomit it all over my floor (and then, yes, re-eat it—dogs are so gross).
I spend too long with my hands under the hot tap, scrubbing away organic mayonnaise and dog slobber (also organic), staring at the sudsy water disappearing down the drain, thinking about what the hell is going on—part of Derek Irving’s body was found on this island, by the very beast who now has a belly full of artisanal brioche, smoked turkey, and vegan Gouda.
But where is the rest of Derek Irving? Was he buried on Cordelia Beach? Was he tossed into
