Up the worms came, rotini-thick, chubby palindromes of flesh. “Sorry,” I said. “That’s OK,” said the dirt-specked brain at the bottom of the can. “You could use a win.” "I could blame my misery on the family business but truthfully I wanted it." I would’ve licked glass for a tin can, an old boot—the smallest tug of resistance would cure my everything. Instead: limp nothing. It wasn’t the ocean’s fault—on the other side of the dock, my sister Maude reeled in cascades of wr