Wheeling Gull Isle hell hath no fury

In reticent quiet, he follows his father to a shallow indentation in the sand. He peers down, expressionless as he listens to his father’s explanation. It’s just a pile of old fruit. How did a pile of old fruit do all this?

He clutches a mouthful of it and walks to the ocean’s edge. He releases his jaws and watches bits thunk into the spray. He returns, clutching more, and repeats until every last piece of fruit has been swallowed up by the depths.

He lingers along the edge a moment before turning back to face Caracal.

“Why are you hurting, Dad?”