Fiction from NER 41.4 (2020)
The turtles are restful creatures, of course, once you get them fed, cleaned up, lolling about by warm rocks, breathing quietly under the sunlight. They’re restful creatures in general, even in times of duress, which is why I’ve got to be here, and why they’ve got to be here, at the sanctuary near Coconut Grove. Their restfulness has gotten them into jams. These turtles have choked on plastic bags, been scarred and broken by motorboats swimming on the surface of the water (sometimes I imagine how our boats must look from down there, black shadows moving at lightning speed above the blue—apocalyptic, really).