Sam, eyes fixed on the fast-approaching beach, paddle held strong in the water, screams, “Oh my God.”
Kate says, “Coast, the fish, it’s going for Claire. Go fisher-man-handle that thing out of there.”
But I can’t stand up. The thing flops around knocking itself off the gunwales and tightening the tangle of the net until it catapults into the hammock bed and lands, mummified in green string, beside Claire. It stops flopping, but its gills are still pulsing just inches away from Claire’s still sleeping eyes.