The water became an endless gray-green tunnel. Luce drove herself relentlessly, the water whipping out behind her until it no longer seemed to be water but only an unceasing road. The pain in her body streaked like bubbles, like falling light, and more than once she slapped against startled animals, her speed throwing them aside. The baby faces of beluga whales winked at her, and she parted walls of fish with the currents that rushed off her body. She couldn’t hear the silvery voice anymore, only the storm of ripped water striking her cheeks like millions of torn flags. Every now and then she surfaced to catch a quick, panting breath, and also to make sure she was still heading for that distant fishing boat. Was she even getting any closer? And even if the strange mermaid was exceptionally strong, wasn’t it crazy to imagine she could survive so long without air? Luce saw the black and white smears of orcas dash by below her. They seemed to realize she was going too quickly for them to catch her, but sooner or later her exhaustion would become overwhelming and she’d have to slow down.

The fishing boat was closer, suddenly. The water shivered with the roar of its engines. Luce was so tired that her head swayed, and the boat seemed to become a stained metal cloud. But, very softly, she heard a last exhalation of windy song, a final call. Whoever it was in the net was still alive, then, if only barely. Luce dove again, the spiraling of her tail harsh and automatic. She could see the boat through the water now, the swell of the enormous net behind it like some vast, pulsating tumor. Luce raced on, and soon the silver mass of thousands of struggling fish was all she could see, spreading for dozens of yards on both sides. She clenched the knife and threw herself against the net, her free hand digging through its strands and against the cold, squirming bodies of a nation of pollock.

Then she raised the knife and slashed, cutting the clustered fish in her desperation. Blood began to spiral through the water and red gouts striped the gleaming scales, but the net didn’t give. Luce tried to calm herself and began to cut through one strand at a time, still gripping the net like a mountain climber. Bit by bit a gash began to form in the net, the first few wounded fish slithering through it. Luce cut steadily on, and a bulge of fighting silver bodies began to squeeze toward the opening, shoving at her hands and sometimes slapping straight into her face as they burst free. Luce began to hear the moan of straining fibers, the popping sounds of breaking strands.