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I wake before sunrise the morning after the crash.
My old t-shirt smells of sweat. It’s damp, so the sand clings to it. I sit up, folding my goose-pimpled arms over my kneecaps, watching the dark ocean before me. Light crests in the distance. I wait until the sun has lifted beyond the horizon before I stand and stretch.
I’m groggy. And thirsty. But mostly groggy. My head pounds—from lack of water or caffeine? I’m hungry, too.
I wade out, struggling not to splash, eyes peeled for meat. Schools of miniature fish catch my eye, but I’ll need something bigger. And slower, preferably.
My eyes sting from the salt. The wind chops at my concentration. Then, I see it. The flicker of a tail. The boy is big and blue and green and probably delicious.
But I take a step, and he is gon
