It’s midnight, and the light of a full moon glints on the surface of the Pacific Ocean. You can see the ebbing of the shoreline, how the light scatters differently on the surface of the waves versus the sand. Alongside the wash of the sea, you can hear subdued, guttural groaning, the shuffling of Crocs through sand. There’s an undead woman – flesh hanging off her cheek in a clump – limping towards you. No urgency, no pressure. She could be drunk, in another time and place, and just off for a walk down Venice beach.
