Brianne & Dannon

1: sea glass

There's really no graceful way to sneak onto Cape Cavina Beach with a large trash bag. Not at five AM, when it's sorta-kinda-technically illegal to be on the premises. And certainly not with the wind treating the bag like its own personal rag doll.

The black plastic slaps Brianne in the face for the third time since stepping off the wooden steps and onto the sand. She lets out a grumbled sigh and shoves the trash bag under her armpit. God. It's too fucking early for this.

She blows a stray hair out of her face and fumbles with her phone for the flashlight. The lowest setting doesn't do much other than light up her sneakers—black, to match her sweats and cropped hoodie—but she doesn't risk raising the bar. With her luck, someone is up there, on a stroll down the boardwalk. She doesn't have time to get arrested, okay? She has a test in Calculus today.

Brianne's sneakers sink with each step, and it doesn't matter how carefully she moves—sand still manages to wedge underneath her sock. Ouch. Dammit. Ow. She kicks her foot out like that'll do anything. The pinching shifts from her heel to her toe.

She scans the stray rocks and dried seaweed. Beach CC has been less of a sweep since the tourist season ended in August, but college kids have their uses. October in itself is a month-long Halloween fest. So many themed beach parties.

And at least her next stop, Cape Cavina University, will be easier. There, she can pretend she's a Freshman on her way back from a night out. What's the trash bag for? Oh. Feeling nauseous. You know how it is.

Green glitters behind a patch of driftwood. She perks.

The empty wine bottle glares under the weight of the flashlight. She grins. Jackpot.

It slips into the bag with a satisfactory heft. If the rest could also be abandoned wine, that would be great.

—

The rest are not abandoned wine.

By the time Brianne slumps into the local redemption center, the trash bag tossed over her shoulder like she's some kind of off-brand Santa, she has an assortment of wine, beer, water, soda, and even occasional apple cider bottles. The bag is bursting, actually, but it's not enough to calm the nerves prickling underneath her skin.

She dodges precarious stains along the concrete floor and sidles up to the large table posing as a counter. The stench of beer emanates from all over the too-small space, like it's seeped into every crack and crevice of the walls, floor, and towering plastic storage containers. It takes everything not to wrinkle her nose.

The redemption worker barely nods in greeting before he snatches the bag and dumps the contents onto the table. There's a wireless earbud in one of his ears, and Brianne nearly smiles. No small talk. Fucking fantastic.

Her teeth dig into her lip as bottles go flying in all directions. How the hell he's keeping track of all the information is a mystery she doesn't care enough to unravel. All that matters is that the two hours she spent hauling ass around Cape Cavina has been worth it.

Please be enough. Please, please, please.

She should have said no when Diya and Kennedy insisted they all get together this past weekend. She knew her bank account was teetering on the edge of a mental breakdown, and a day out never fails to cost her a week's pay—at least.

But she can only refuse so many times before suspicions begin to arise. And she definitely doesn't want a repeat of last year, when Kennedy started pulling back because well, I assumed you'd say no.

So now, here she is, arms wrapped tightly over her chest and pleading with no one in particular that she's somehow scrounged up enough to afford a passable lunch. She still has twelve dollars in her bank account. Fine for local takeout, but Felwood? Not so much.