A short story after the end.
I can't find replacement sunglasses. The shades I got in Coachella — the ones I bought while Shade was there, coincidentally — crumbled to pieces partway into my brother's graduation ceremony. The pieces, I'd imagine, still lay under the visitor bleachers at the stadium at Cal Poly. It's about what I'd expect from something manufactured in Hollister — no less, something manufactured in an apparently invisible sunglasses factory that has somehow escaped my notice for twenty-one years.
To repeat, I can't find replacements. Hollister apparently doesn't sell the sunglasses it makes. Lame.
(The tiny white ball you throw in bocceball is called a pellini.)