"This is a town of old people,
mlb lanyard," he says as he stands on the foundation of his house on a cold winter morning,
NFL Hats, the smashed remains of someone else's roof on the ground next to him. "Young people just don't want to live in Kesennuma anymore."
The beams he had chiseled were 75 feet (25 meters) away,
toys for adult, tangled with wreckage from across the neighborhood. The air stank of mold and mud and fuel that had leaked from the nearby port. He pointed to the remnants of house after house where the residents are either dead or missing.