Those gray, sandy beaches were as static as my heart beat. I searched for him everywhere. His home was empty. The streets were empty. Was I alone? In the distance I saw a shack. The rust had worked its way along the roof and started down the sides. And the door swayed on its hinge, following the guidance of the wind. I hurried in. Hanging from the ceiling were fish that had been sliced and ripped open. They looked like pink chandeliers, sparkling from the fresh blood that dripped from them. Disgusted, I turned to see him there, on a cold, rusted table. Where his left leg had been was empty space. A clean cut, it looked like, a good six inches above where his knee had been. But he was not bleeding. His skin was thinner than what I had believed it to be. His flesh was colorless. His face was expressionless. I studied his lips—I couldn’t tell you why. He wasn’t upset or in pain, as far as I could tell. He was without a limb! He has been a dancer! He found joy in dancing—how could he be unaffected by this loss?