Sometimes a walrus, growing until the human body burst apart, revealing tusk and tooth. A wave made them crumple, skin sagging and bloated, until their flesh fell apart, obliterated by the blue, leaving a clean, new creature beneath: sometimes a seal, wet coat slick, brown eyes still human. If they touched the water, if they slipped or tripped or dared, the spray made them scream, mouths wide, tongues distended. He wouldn't let them, and they obeyed him. "That's what he named you?" I asked, arms folded before me. "Nor," she said, sticking out her hand as if she expected me to shake it. I knew, and I said nothing, because we were all, in our own way, monsters. When she came up the path, feet quiet, deliberate, I knew it from the way she moved, the webbing between her bare toes, how she faltered when she reached the lighthouse landing, like she had never seen things like stairs before.
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