I overturned a rock, and worms were under it. Beetles, grubs. I had a nightmare after that. When our fathers turn away, we turn after them, following angrily in the turbulent V of their wake, the outboard motor smoking. A rancid, acidic smell bites our noses. We keep following the tall man in the buttoned coat who covered our faces in shaving cream and shaved us with his finger long after he has stopped looking behind him, over his shoulder to where he came from, where we are trudging hopefully. He will never turn over the stone of his past expecting a radiant vein of quartz to shout up at him from the black, newly broken moisture under the stone–and find us.