Stonington
Stonington didn’t come with much. He didn’t even have a name. He only had a box, just the size of a pair of sneakers, with a scuffed-up red ball, a grass-stained bandana, a small black blank notebook, and a barely surviving, badly chewed stuffed animal—though kingdom, phylum, class and such were no longer discernable, it made a bird-like sound when I poked it where the stomach would have once been.
