The living tell me that man is my brother.
The dead say nothing. They lie at the bottom of the sea, their blood already washed away.
I call him brother every day, and the whole base praises me for being so lucky.
Every night, I dream of moonlight, seawater, a biscuit broken in half, and a knife thrust into me from behind.
The whale cannot speak, but every day it bites my trouser leg and drags me toward the seabed.
It's trying to make me look at something.
That thing might be the same as what's written on this crumpled note in my pocket.
The quiet little girl slipped it to me.
It shows a knife.
The blade points down.
Beneath its tip lies a person.
