He gazed down at himself then, tracing the star that was tattooed just beneath his heart (hand-inked by one of his buddies from the pulp mill). As it had aged, the edges had begun to curl up, starfish-like. It occurred to him that his whole body was now in on the mutiny. Even his feet, which had begun to turn steadily outward, like fins.
For a while he had been able to camouflage the problem with blue jeans. They had gone out just like usual to the supermarket, to the beach, to the video store, to their favorite seafood restaurant, and although he lumbered a bit like a mummy in a horror movie, no one was the wiser for it. (If anyone was brazen enough to ask, Ben would attribute the stiffness to early-onset arthritis.)
To further protect her husband’s secret, Margita always waited until n
