I woke up with the arm beside me in bed. I tried to scream, but the hand closed gently over my mouth. The skin was smooth but smelled of brine. With an effort of will, I got up, pulled the arm away, and threw it back onto the bed. It lay there, twitching. There was sand under its fingernails.
I began to laugh. It was after midnight. I was alone in my room with a reanimated, disembodied arm.
Her arm. Her hand.
It had come to me from the depths of the sea, crawling across the sea floor like some odd creature in an old book.
What would you have done? I remembered Grogery' comment that the arm displayed the same mindless motion as a wounded starfish.
I took the arm downstairs and buried it in the backyard, weighed down with bricks an
d string like an unwanted kitten. Then I went back to
