The smaller rat had been drowning for an hour. The bigger one owned the spoon.

  Ryanne fished out the loser. It didn't fight, crusted in someone's breakfast from two days ago.

  "Land," her mother called.

  Ryanne's fist closed. The rat stopped breathing.

  She looked down.

  "Shit." She dropped it back in the pot.

  Water found her knees. It had been at her ankles when she'd started the contest.

  "Bail."

  Ryanne used the helmet. The woman beside her used her hands. The crack in the hull didn't really care.

  Four boats. They'd left with six.

  The coastline sharpened into rocks, a beach, smoke from something small.

  "Weapons stay packed."

  The bottom hit sand and she kept bailing.

  Her mother stepped off the prow into the shallows. She was wearing the posture she used before battles, before speeches, before explaining again why they had to keep moving.

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  Ryanne wrung out her sleeve. "Is this the right one?"

  Her mother didn't answer. She never did.

  The old man stood up from his hole.

  "Closed," he announced. "Beach is closed."

  Ryanne's mother looked at him. Then at the hole. Then at him again.

  "There are forty of us."

  "Noted. Still closed." He was patting the sand flat with both hands. "Try the next beach."

  "Mother," Ryanne said. "He's hiding something."

  "I'm gardening." He stood on the spot.

  Her mother's sword found his throat. He looked down at it like she was proposing.

  "Has anyone ever told you," he said thoughtfully, "that you look exactly like someone I'm trying to avoid?"

  Her mother's grip changed. Ryanne stepped back.

  "Who," she said.

  "Who what? I said avoid. Avoiding is very different from knowing. Completely separate disciplines."

  Her mother waited. He lasted about four seconds.

  "She's not here. Well. She's somewhere. Not beach-somewhere. More... generally somewhere. In the region. Possibly."

  Ryanne looked at the hole. Fresh sand, packed badly.

  "Mother."

  "I see it."

  "That's completely unrelated," Democritus said, squatting.

  Her mother's blade followed his throat down.

  "I'M FERTILIZING MY GARDEN NOW."

  He squatted deeper.

  "Get up."

  "The soil needs what it needs." His jaw set, his eyes closed.

  The sword stayed where it was. Ryanne had never seen it pointed at something her mother couldn't fix.

  Dogs first, then a rooster, then voices from the hill.

  The sword wavered as the smell hit. Her mother took a half step back.

  Wood split behind her. Not the slow complaint they'd been hearing for weeks. A finished sound.

  Ryanne ran.

  Away from the boats.

  Her name, once, behind her. She left it there.

  The helmet dropped and her feet were warm. Dry sand, for the first time in weeks. No water rising.

  There was someone in the way.

  Same bones as her mother. Same mouth too. But old and carved up.

  "FFFFFFFFUUUUUU-"