I was whole before I tore, a single skin, one ancient shore. Now I’m gone, yet still I stay, in drifting parts that move away.

I float in the ocean, cold and white. Most of me hides below the water. What am I?

The first three of ten digits to phone someone within the NANP, Ludacris has women in many of these.

I am the land’s unspoken vein, that carries life through the hills and plains. I bear the weight of trade and time, then meet the sea in steady line.

Every state has rivers and lakes, Roads and bridges, birds and snakes. But I am found in only two: Alabama and Nebraska. Who knew? What am I?