There was a bone on the bottom of the harbor. It had no sense of the eels sliding through the mud or the fish with the cancerous eyes, but it did have a memory of a leg standing in a field. It remembered the sounds of animals and slick, pink babies. It lay against a cinder block, the marks of a knife on one end, the creature it had been murdered years ago. The bone was angry, senseless in the water, and wanted light.