![]() ![]() “We had an accident,” he says, swaying slightly. He extends a hand though we are too far away to take it, though we wouldn’t take it anyway. His words come out differently from ours. “Please don’t be afraid,” says the man who is standing up. A blue rucksack, soaking wet, lies on the ground between them. The other man is older, shorter, his hair fair or grey or both, pale eyes that he shares with the first man. His body is elongated, dark hair across his chin and head, cropped close. We stand in a semicircle a safe distance away from them, fabric bunched in our hands, ready. Two grown men and one boy, all of them tracked with salt and sand. By the time we arrive, they are sitting up. We gather lengths of muslin and our knives and we move down to the shore while the men are still weak. And here, finally, is the emergency we have been waiting for our whole lives. The ringing in the air after a loud sound has passed. Emergency has always been with us if not present emergency then always the idea that it is coming. ![]()
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