Shilo’s finger skims the wire of another scar. Slippery and tight. A tiny fold of white spills over it as he bends forward in the sand. The patches of his body are part of him, and they aren’t.
Before him, the sea is a panting darkness. He feels the hunger inside. The itch in his feet to drive him straight through it.
Another tear scrapes its way down his chin. They keep bubbling up—hot and choking and loud. But the wind has blocked out all sound. He’s nothing but a howl.
The man sits outside of sleep. Chest lit with low heat. Hands open. Eyes boring into the cuts along his palms. Shilo watches him watch the silence in his touch.