The highway ended abruptly at the edge of the continent. One moment they were driving through a tunnel of redwood trees, their branches weaving overhead like a cathedral ceiling. The next, the trees vanished, and the Pacific Ocean stretched out before them.
Ezra stopped the car. The engine hummed once, then silenced itself. It knew there was no further to go.
The coastline had changed. The sea level was higher, swallowing the old coastal highways. The ruins of Santa Monica pier were submerged, visible only as dark shapes beneath the turquoise water. The air was clean. Sharp. Salty. It lacked the tang of exhaust and oil that had defined this coast for a century.
Tomas opened his door. He stepped out and stretched. His back cracked. He had been sitting for too long. "We're here," he said.
