Be mer...maid, Harold spits out, though it takes a while, and Lotte grabs hold of this garble—his stroke so new, she so new to what to do, and how, and sets off at dawn for early market, yawning boats just in, rocking with fish and sponge. She selects fresh flounder and hake, their eyes blinking like bubbles in sun—not dead yet. She makes eyes at the captain for a deal, thirty for the lot—a lot for the budget, but Harold’s been so tortured, then slaps the fish overlapping like king-sized scales onto the lower half of her body and wills them not to slump or sag as she wobbles toward home. It’s a battle for all as the fish flip and flop about gasping for water—reaching for the sink, the tub, the leaking hose drenching the radishes and cabbages. Stay, she says, over and over, pawing life at them. It has always been hard enough to keep her balance, her spine crooked from birth. Please. All are thirsty—Lotte, the fish, and Harold, who has collapsed under the cross of lost speech, a pernicious remnant of pilfered health. Daily, he strives to calm the boil of his once iron mind. What has saved him, in the end, is his missus, who acquiesces to the twist of his every wish. Lipstick on a fish, she snickers. Finally, mouth askew, Harold grunts and spills a laugh, too, as Lotte chants a sea shanty and shimmies a dance.