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 need this more than us.” I could blame the family business but the truth was 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 wriggli