The shark eats three more companies before the end of the month, and I find I’m waiting for it, hanging by the screen like a nervous boyfriend, but in fact it never happens unless I’m there. It never even happens if I’m just looking the other way. It waits. Or rather, as I tell myself, the subconscious process in my head that has been kicked loose by my rampage, by my fear, by priapism and by my shark obsession, requires that I spend a given amount of time looking at the numbers before it shows me what is happening.