You Don't Belong Here Either.
Notes from beside the sound of the Seneca Guns
I went to the Poe Museum.
Edgar Allan Poe followed me out.
Unfortunately, he appears to have found Blackbeard.
They're drinking.
This could end with a boom.
UPDATE, LATER THAT SAME DAY
Through a series of events entirely unrelated to this Margin, and involving a tragedy I don't want to exploit for a story that isn't about it, I ended up needing a Lyft from Miami to Fort Lauderdale after a particularly bad day that had left me feeling pretty somber.
I was quiet during the ride. My driver didn't speak English, and I didn't pay any attention to his name. I was mostly just grateful someone had accepted a trip between the airports.
When I got there, I added an extra tip as a thank-you.
A few minutes later, my phone lit up with a notification.
Edgar says...
That was the first time I noticed his name.
Of course it was Edgar.
I don't know that the universe actually winks at us. But sometimes the timing is good enough that I don't particularly care.
It lifted my spirits a little.
Apparently, Edgar really did follow me out.