Sixty-some miles apart, you talk to a surgeon while I walk on a beach plucking even the tiniest fragments of beach glass from the sand. Omens and portents, I'm thinking when I see the birds in the distance. Pure white doves--as if some magician has given them the day off for a trip to the beach. They take flight. I count nine and finger the bright pieces of glass in my pocket as if they are rosary beads.