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The waves, the diurnal inequalities of the sun and the moon spread the shells in random pockets of thin and plenty. A solitary, broken remnant of life lies alone within sight of the variegated masses of conches, baby’s ears and scallops thrown together in a dare from the sea.

“Find me,” a voice says to the wrinkled woman in the wide-brimmed hat. “Find me,” it says to the man with the cataract sunglasses. Silently they rake the piles with their walking sticks and when they go home, they spread their shells on a Formica beach in a kitchen of artificial light.