Damn Leni, damn that Frenchman, damn all the ones who bring things home, who bring cancer cures, seashells, things without names who keep us here waiting, who fill Wards, who bring us the Fear. But cling to this dark, warm and close, to Charmian’s slow breathing, to the rhythm of the sea. You get high enough out here; you’ll hear the sea, deep down behind the constant conch-shell static of the bonephone. It’s something we carry with us, no matter how far from home.