The Indian awoke in small boat, a pool of brackish water collecting around his sodden woolen trousers and water logging his homemade leather boots.
Four generations of Denton bones had come loose from their satchel, and drifted about in the brown water, making the boat resemble a whale whose skeleton had come undone beneath its taut skin and blubber.
The boat’s sail was tattered but stiff, skipping along past some unknown island, whose contours were concealed in a deep morning fog. Out beyond the curve of the horizon Jonah could hear a siren call of unknown origin, a beating like that of a cured skin, a scraping sound as of a tanned hide, and the soft trammel of bare feet on fallen, autumn leaves, and finally the lapping of endlessly falling water.
Jonah Graves collected each Denton bone with manic precision, and without ceremony pitched them into that infinite, churning sea.