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And
on
the
far
rim
of
consciousness
,
a
scurrying
,
a
fleeting
impression
of
something
rushing
toward
him
,
across
leagues
of
black
mirror
.
He
tried
to
scream
.
There
seemed
to
be
a
city
,
beyond
the
curve
of
beach
,
but
it
was
far
away
.
He
crouched
on
his
haunches
on
the
damp
sand
,
his
arms
wrapped
tight
across
his
knees
,
and
shook
.
He
stayed
that
way
for
what
seemed
a
very
long
time
,
even
after
the
shaking
stopped
.
The
city
,
if
it
was
a
city
,
was
low
and
gray
.
At
times
it
was
obscured
by
banks
of
mist
that
came
rolling
in
over
the
lapping
surf
.
At
one
point
he
decided
that
it
wasn
’
t
a
city
at
all
,
but
some
single
building
,
perhaps
a
ruin
;
he
had
no
way
of
judging
its
distance
.
The
sand
was
the
shade
of
tarnished
silver
that
hadn
’
t
gone
entirely
black
.
The
beach
was
made
of
sand
,
the
beach
was
very
long
,
the
sand
was
damp
,
the
bottoms
of
his
jeans
were
wet
from
the
sand
.
.
.
He
held
himself
and
rocked
,
singing
a
song
without
words
or
tune
.
The
sky
was
a
different
silver
.
Chiba
.
Like
the
Chiba
sky
.
Tokyo
Bay
?
He
turned
his
head
and
stared
out
to
sea
,
longing
for
the
hologram
logo
of
Fuji
Electric
,
for
the
drone
of
a
helicopter
,
anything
at
all
.
Behind
him
,
a
gull
cried
.
He
shivered
.
A
wind
was
rising
.
Sand
stung
his
cheek
.
He
put
his
face
against
his
knees
and
wept
,
the
sound
of
his
sobbing
as
distant
and
alien
as
the
cry
of
the
searching
gull
.
Hot
urine
soaked
his
jeans
,
dribbled
on
the
sand
,
and
quickly
cooled
in
the
wind
off
the
water
.
When
his
tears
were
gone
,
his
throat
ached
.
'
Wintermute
,
’
he
mumbled
to
his
knees
,
'
Wintermute
.
.
.
’
It
was
growing
dark
,
now
,
and
when
he
shivered
,
it
was
with
a
cold
that
finally
forced
him
to
stand
.
