The shark smells the cut on her thigh from far away. The scent is coconut sunscreen and fresh blood. She treads water in between the sandbars where it likes to hide. She wears a bright orange bathing suit against her white skin, but it doesn’t see her until it is close by, summoned by her flailing arms. It is after hours. The sound of kids playing with pails and shovels has been replaced with shrieking seabirds who keep diving around her to see if the shark has done its trick. And yet, she doesn’t move. It is almost too easy.
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