FISHGUTS

From Orlando's white-hot kitchens to the gray docks of Lake Erie, Tripp's collapse is legendary. Once a golden boy chef, he burned out in a haze of whiskey and powder, plates crashing, staff scattering. Orlando spat him out, and the lake dragged him home. Now he's back in Port Clinton...Dockside fry baskets, Rusty Anchor nights, fights in the gravel, menus scribbled in secret. He tells himself it's punishment. Maybe it is. But under the grease and the smoke, something hungrier survives. Thi...