Most of their heads have been severed, no doubt the handiwork of the man who's calling after me.

“What are you looking for?” he yells.

“My brother!” I shout. “He was with me and now …”

There are hundreds of Unconsecrated littering the beach and I am about to turn one over to see its face when the man catches up with me and pulls me back.

“Whoa there,” he says. “Watch what you're doing. Some of these Mudo are still dangerous.” He pushes me aside and flips the body with his shovel. I clasp my hands in front of my face, peering around my fingers. But it isn't Jed. We repeat this with all the bodies on the beach. My stomach lurches every time and I pray that I haven't caused my brother's death. The man patiently leads me from body to body, turning them so that I can see and then swiftly cutting their heads as casually as he would dig into the earth.

We look at every body on the beach. We never find Jed.

“There's a lot of shoreline,” the man says finally. “Maybe he washed up somewhere else. It's dangerous to leave this cove but I could take you if you wanted. Or he could still wash up here.

Never know, usually after a storm like last night we'll have stuff comin' up for days.” I walk to the edge of the water and he follows.

“Why do you call them Mudo?” I ask him.

He seems taken aback by my question. Even blushes a little.

“I guess I like it better,” he says, his voice a little mumbled. “It's what the pirates who hunt along the coast call them. It means speechless.” He shrugs. “Seems to fit.”

“Where am I?” I ask, keeping my gaze fixed on the line where the water meets the sky.

“This beach doesn't really have a name. Not since the Return, anyway. “ I dig my toes into the fine sand. Another wave crashes around my ankles, causing my feet to sink into the ground a little. A few cuts on my calves protest as the salty water probes the wounded flesh.

“I have never seen the ocean,” I say. I wonder what Jed would have thought, taking in the expanse of water. If Travis would be proud that I finally made it. That I survived. I collapse onto my knees and the man jumps in alarm.

He turns to squat next to me and together we look out at the way the sun sets the water sparkling.

“It's usually not so full of debris,” the man says. “Storms like the one last night will cause a lot of timber to pour out of the river, will churn things up a bit and make the water cloudy. But I've never seen so many Mudo before.”

I like the sound of his voice. Its depth, its tone. It reminds me of Travis, melts into my memory of Travis's voice, of the way the words slipped from his lips.