Returned to the lagoon, Bernie shot through the water, throwing himself high into the air with Mother, again and again, 6 feet high, 7. Eight feet high. Jumping in hopes of spotting Junior.

Meanwhile the hammering had started. Cora ran up the veranda stairs. Her breath echoed in her ears. Slammed open the porch door. Inside the room, she realized her vision had floated up out of her body, so she could somehow see the back of her own head, the swirl of shaved hair.

Junior lay in the narrow glass tank, straps holding him still.

Blum was holding a nail against Junior’s head, the hammer held high. He looked at her, satisfaction in his eyes. He was showing her who was boss.

She heard herself speak in the cop’s voice. Using his voice, she had no branks.—If you continue this operation, I will leave.

He blinked.

She watched her body from above. It made no gestures to soften her statement but stood still and straight.—They won’t accept food from you. They’ll starve. They’ll die.

She said—You can catch more dolphins, but you won’t be able to train them or feed them. They’ll die too. None of them will ever talk humanoid again.

From her viewpoint near the ceiling, she could see him so clearly. His eyes narrowed, but he did not back down, not yet. Not in front of the other men. He needed something, some face-saving idea.

She listened as her mouth spoke more words.—Stop this. Let him go, and I’ll teach one of them to speak. I’ll do it the way humans are taught.

He was listening.

She heard the words coming from her.—If you stop operating on the dolphins, all of them, I’ll live with one of these dolphins like a mom does with her baby. I’ll teach the baby morning and night.

He cocked his head. He liked this idea.—How? The little pool won’t work.

She looked around the room, searching for the answer. Her mouth said—Build me an apartment, half flooded with water. The dolphin and I will live there together.

His eyes were bright now. He loved this. Still, he did not say yes.

She needed something more to make him agree. One last detail.

Words. He loved jargon, loved to make words up. Humanoid, stimulus train.

Her mouth said—The question is what to call the space where the dolphin and I would live. It would be a home that was also an aquarium. A home . . .

His forehead knit, he did not respond.

Her mouth tried again.—Goodness. A home that was also an aquarium. A home . . .

. . . arium—he called out, pleased with himself.

Her hands clapped as though delighted—Homearium! Homearium! That’s brilliant!

Which dolphin?—he asked.

(How do any of us really understand our choices? We hear a decision issue from our lips and having no idea how we arrived at that choice, we ascribe a plausible motive, one that illustrates the person we wish we were.