In the kitchen, he filled his old kettle and set it on the gas stove. While it heated up, he stepped out onto the porch. The air was cool and damp with early morning moisture. He looked out at the sea—something he did every day without thinking.
The water was calm and glassy, the tide on its way in. “Good tide for fishing,” he mumbled. He glanced at the windsock tied to the railing. It barely moved. Back inside, he poured his tea and flipped open the small radio on the windowsill.