Jay’s stupor permits the dull understanding that this crescent is a mouth, twenty feet of closed mouth, and this obsidian skyscraper is no surfacing Atlantis. No colliding planet. It is a living thing. Mitt, in his foulest of moods, pissed at some landlubber who got the best of him, said human beings were suckers to think they, with their matchstick villages balanced atop bread crusts of dry land, controlled anything at all. The lords lived below. Fins tiny, yet still twice the size of Jay. Motionless now but one flap of them, and surely tides would surge all along the western coast.
