In the aftermath of any great horror come two strange pauses, and during these one may hear the broken pieces falling to the floor. After a bomb, or a murder, or the collapse of a mine, there is the immediate silence of the dying. The first flush of demolition is done, and now there is consequence, and it is small and personal and infinite. The last of a stained glass window falls to the floor; the living count their wounds. Some get to their feet, while others discover their impermanence and struggle to comprehend the final curtain as it drops. It is the moment Neith knew floating in the ocean at Santorini, when the tectonic symphony had played itself inside her body, and ten thousand silver fish, each no bigger than a finger, drifted up and around her to die on the surface and in the mouths of gulls.