Eli’s bed was the hull of a fishing boat. An antique figurehead had been mounted on the bow. In daylight she took the form of a woman rising out of foam, her eyes burning a path toward the North Star and morning. Her hair had been painted the colour of fire, her eyes a terrible and final blue. In her arms she held a fish: an hour by subway from the nearest ocean, it opened its gasping mouth to the sky.
This is Sam’s! The very one he was restoring in The Singer’s Gun!
