“She’s awake!” my rock neighbor says. “What’s happening?” I ask, my throat raw. “What’s happening?” “Don’t strain your voice, dear.” “Who are you? Where am I?” “You’re on our rock, sweetie. You’ve been enlisted as a human barnacle by the Wildlife Preservation Initiative. Remember?” My rock neighbor is an older woman with shells cluttering her hair. She notices me noticing her shells. “I’m Barnacle Betty, but you can call me Joan. I’m trying to build a convincing crust.”
