The woman shifts in her sleep, knee moving firmly against my hip, and my backside slips out from under the covers. The night has turned chilly, an offshore wind bringing the deep sea weather inland. I have a cold backside and I’m in bed with a secret superspy or a crazy woman. Or maybe I’m not. Here in the Potemkin temple village of a mad priest, a billionaire driven before a god, it occurs to me that there are simpler explanations for what I am going through. The simplest of all is that I am being eaten, even now. I never escaped my shark. She came back around after swallowing my wristwatch and engulfed me, and I have suffered a kind of merciful psychotic break. As my legs are torn away by the rending jaws, as my head goes down the gullet, I have slipped into an absolute denial in which I will live my whole life, or seem to, and never know that the bloody monster just took me like a child snatching a fruit.