“Doctor, come have a look at this,” Mark said, tugging her from her thoughts.

Elsa joined him where he was bent close to the shark’s head, snapping a photograph of the milky white throat. “See that?” He pointed to what looked like a black puncture wound in the V-shaped scales. “Something’s stuck in her.”

“Let’s find out what it is.” She went to the steel shelves lining one wall and returned with a pair of needle-nose pliers. She pinched the lodged object between the tips of the tool and slowly extracted what turned out to be a four-inch-long bone with serrated edges. It was shaped like a pen, with one end tapering into a sharp point.

“A stingray barb,” Elsa said, unsurprised. Sharks often preyed on stingrays.

Mark was nodding. “And look, another one.”

She extracted the second barb, this one located farther down the throat, near the gills. It was roughly the same size as the first. “Want to wager what we’ll find in her stomach?”

“I’m not a betting man, Doctor,” Mark said. “But I will guess things didn’t end very well for the stingray. I’ll get the preparations underway for the necropsy.”

∆∆∆

Two and a half hours later Dr. Elsa Montero stood inside the brightly lit shed, looking out at the excited audience packed beneath the marquee that Mark and two other colleagues had erected on the beach. Elsa performed all her shark dissections in public, as it was one of the best ways to educate locals and tourists alike about the misunderstood creatures. Typically, a shark necropsy attracted a dozen or so curious spectators. Today, however, the great white had drawn a record crowd. She guessed there must be at least twenty people beneath the tent, as well as another twenty or so fifth graders from a prestigious international school. The students, all dressed in mauve shirts and navy shorts or skirts, had been on a field trip to the beach to participate in various sporting activities. Upon hearing there was a great white in the shed awaiting dissection, they had swarmed the roll-up door, shoving at one another and standing on tiptoes to steal a glimpse of the apex predator.

One brave girl with blonde pigtails poking out from the sides of her head ventured into the shed to stand right before the shark. She studied the fish’s beady black eyes with apprehension, as though she thought it might somehow be watching her.

“If it’s dead,” she said without looking away from it, “why doesn’t it close its eyes?”

“Because unlike you and I,” Elsa replied, “great whites don’t have eyelids. What’s your name, little girl?”

“I’m not little. I’m ten, and my birthday’s in July.”

“My mistake, young lady. So what’s your name?”

“Julie,” the girl replied, finally glancing up at Elsa. “I’m not afraid of sharks.”

“Have you ever touched one before?”

She shook her head. “Can I?”

“Be my guest.”

The girl stepped forward and extended her hand. After a brief hesitation, she patted the great white’s snout as though she were patting a dog. Giggling, she glanced back at her classmates, who were watching her with a combination of amazement, amusement, and alarm.