Harry, Stan, and Peg, their names still legible on the wooden roadside memorial—looks like someone’s left fresh flowers.
One year ago to the day,
they had headed down from Bolinas and across the Golden Gate Bridge to San Francisco to get tattoos and piercings.
Stan and Peg hadn’t stopped talking about it all week—what they would get, where they would get it. Stan was thinking of going with something tribal, maybe an arm band or calf band. Peg had settled on a crimson butterfly, angled slightly on her right shoulder. And Harry? Harry wasn’t much interested in tattoos—he was thinking about getting his ear pierced, probably daydreaming about studs and rings.
