And if you were me, I asked him, and youd gathered as much information as you could, how would you go about putting it all together?

However it comes out, he said. As long as it tells the story, thats all that matters.

But thats the problem, I said, I dont know how to tell the story. I dont know how to put things into words.

Close your eyes, he said.

What?

Close your eyes.

I closed my eyes.

Now tell me everything you can hear and feel and smell and taste. Dont think about it, just feel it and say it.

I did as he asked, describing the feel of the heat on my skin, the smell of the sea and the air and the beach, the faint murmuring whistle of the sea breeze, and the taste it brought to my throat of salt and dust and ooze and decay.

Now open your eyes, Starry said, and tell me what you see.

The beach, I told him, the sea, the cliffs, the sky, the sun---

What color is the sea?

I hesitated, studying it.

Dont think about it, he reminded me. Just tell me what you see. What color is it?

Dark. A kind of greenish black.

And the beach?

Brown, sandy, with patches of oily black---and at the base of the wall its kind of gravelly gray and white.

And what does it feel like?

What?

Everything. What does it feel like to you?

Like its all I know---like its dying.

Thats it, Starry said, smiling at me.

What do you mean?

Thats all you have to do. Just take all the feelings from your heart and mind and put them into words. You can do it. You just have. Its as simple as that.

I nodded slowly, not fully convinced it was quite as simple as he was suggesting, but at least the idea of writing an account didnt seem quite so impossible anymore. There was something else I needed from Starry though, something I knew he wouldnt want to give me. But I needed it. I didnt know why I needed it, but I did. It would hurt Starry to do it, I knew that. And I hated myself for having to ask him, but I had to.

What is it? he said, seeing the concern on my face.

I turned to him. Theres something I need to ask you now---before I do anything else.

And whats that?

I want you to tell me my story.

Your story?

The attack by the Wild Ones and the dogs---

I could see the pain and sadness in his eyes.

Ime sorry, I said, I know its not fair of me to ask, and I know you must be wondering why I need you to tell me when I know it all myself, or at least most of it. And it doesnt make any sense to me either. But for some reason I just need —