She had been still so long the sea had learned her shape. Sand dripped from her into the depths, trying to build harbors she never saw, harbors the storms had taken so many times before.

"Just start swimming," said the bird overhead.

"I don't know where to go," she replied.

"It doesn't matter," said the bird.

As she reached an arm forward the storm arrived. Thunder. A howling wind pressed the waves to glass then tore them apart. A vampire squid circled below, patient as debt. She froze upon the water and the sea relearned her shape.

"Just start swimming," said the bird, battling the gale.

"I don't know where to go," she cried.

"You can't harbor here," shouted the bird.

She reached an arm forward and pulled. Felt the caress of motion, foreign and real. She dove beneath the first wave, and then the second, and the squid dissolved into the dark of her ruined harbor. She surfaced – the thunder had drowned in bubbles and breath – and she pulled again, and kicked again, and breathed again. And she breathed again.

She charged forward, oblivious in her motion that the storm had ended hours ago.