eath me, and
tickled my belly with one of its fins as it passed under.

I smiled, a huge grin, and it broke the seal on my mask, filling it with water.
Calmly, as though I'd been doing it all my life, I pressed the top of my mask to
my forehead and blew out through my nose. My mask cleared of water.

I floated.

The only sound was my breathing, and distant, metallic _pink!_s from the ocean's
depths. A school of iridescent purple fish swam past me, and I lazily kicked out
after them, following them to the edge of the coral reef that climbed the far
wall of the ocean. When I reached it, I was overwhelmed by its complexity,
millions upon millions of tiny little suckers depending from weird branches and
misshapen brains and stone roses.

I held my breath.

And I heard nothing. Not a sound, for the first time in all the time I had been
in the bat-house -- no distant shouts and mutters. I was alone, in a vast,
personal silence, in a private ocean. My pulse beat under my skin. Tiny fish
wriggled in the coral, tearing at the green fuzz that grew over it.

Slowly, I turned around and around. The ocean-wall that faced into the apt was
silvered on this side, reflecting back my little pale body to me. My head
pounded, and I finally inhaled, and the sound of my breathing, harsh through the
snorkel, rang in my ears.

I spent an age in the water, holding my breath, chasing the fish, disembodied, a
consciousness on tour on an alien world.

The guy who thought he was Nicola Tesla brought me back. He waited on the rim of
the tank until I swam near enough for him to touch, then he tapped me on the
shoulder. I stuck my head up, and he said, "Time to get out, boy, I need to use
the ocean."

Reluctantly, I climbed out. He handed me a towel.

I felt like I was still flying, atop the staircase on the ocean's edge. I felt
like I could trip slowly down the stairs, never quite touching them. I pulled on
my clothes, and they felt odd to me.

Carefully, forcing myself to grip the railing, I descended. The guy who thought
he was Nicola Tesla stood at my side, not speaking, allowing me my reverie.

My hair was drying out, and starting to raise skywards, and the guy who thought
he was Nicola Tesla went over to his apparatus and flipped a giant knife switch.
The ocean stirred, a puff of sand rose from its bottom, and then, the coral on
the ocean's edge _moved_.

It squirmed and danced and writhed, startling the fish away from it, shedding