A family had died in a tenement blaze. Faulty wiring was being blamed.

A man was suing after finding an ear in his coleslaw at a fried chicken franchise. Police and health officials had discovered no missing ears among the workers involved in the restaurant's coleslaw supply chain. DNA testing was being done.

A man was missing, and authorities were seeking help from the public. Jimmie Ray Teal, forty-seven, left his brother's Jackson Street apartment around three on Monday, May 8, heading for a medical appointment. Teal hadn't been seen since.

My brain cells hoisted that little flag. Dewees Island?

No way. Teal had been breathing eleven days ago. The victim in our body bag hadn't drawn oxygen in at least two years.

I was down to the weekly neighborhood section when my mobile sounded. I checked the caller ID. Showtime.

Emma was a street fighter. She went straight for the kidneys.

"Do you want them to win?"

My beach-walk lecture to myself.

"When?" I asked.

"Nine tomorrow morning?"

"What's the address?"

I wrote it down.

Ten yards offshore, a pair of porpoises arced in and out of the sea, the morning sun glistening their backs a shiny blue-gray porcelain. I watched them nose up, then plunge, vanishing into a world I didn't know.

Draining my coffee, I wondered.

What unknown world was I about to enter?

The remainder of the day passed uneventfully.

At the site, I explained to my students what had taken place following their departure the previous day. Then, while I logged last-minute photos and notes, they refilled open trenches. Together we cleaned shovels, trowels, brushes, and screens, returned our carts to the landings building, and boarded the Aggie Gray for her six o'clock crossing.