“Here, take my jacket,” said Newton. Kayla sat motionless on the sand and said nothing. The crabs, too many to count, too small and delicate to fear scurried in a great sheet, a strange, rustling fabric across the tideless flat, which naked now glistened, rippled beneath the wind, moved in such a strange way by the power of the disappearing sun, the disappearing shadows, the disappearing little crabs back to their land out of sight, the mangroves maybe. All was moving, but motionless in spirit, because when she returned things would be exactly as they were, in her head and in the world. The crabs knew nothing but that they ought to always be a crab, and move in such a way that “crab” would always be a thing, whether witnessed or not. And Kayla, now shivering and crying, was Kayla, thinking and being that thing that was Kayla, witnessed or not. The sky was awash with the claret of its last deep minute and echoing every little ribbon and rivulet of vapour that was up there too—she enjoyed it so much she smiled, and finally Newton smiled too, and every crab that never mattered made it back in time.