This close, it’s like being hit with a cannonball. Jay’s flesh ripples, muscles wobble, tendons twang, bones ring. Eyeballs rattled, he’s blind. When sight splotches back, the bay’s sunny lid is lost, he’s in midnight somersault. Mid-spiral he understands the noise is powerful enough to crack his ribs into his lungs. It’s the sonic wallop Mitt used to listen for through Sleep’s hydrophone. The sperm whale’s echolocational clicks.
