James Turnbow

A panic-stricken woman tries to swim toward land when a massive great white rears out of the water and chomps her in half.

I know what happens to someone who opens the door.

A man with his arm missing at the shoulder stares at his blood-spurting wound for a moment before a small shark jumps from the shallows and clamps onto his face.

My phone rings.

I ignore it.

The girls all huddle and cry, never taking their eyes off me.

Not one of them looks toward the door.

Another man with both his arms missing shouts at the ocean, It's only a flesh wound!

I carefully set Andrea down, then walk to the door.

I put my hand on the door, then shove it closed.

It's a bloodbath, a feeding frenzy, a human buffet.

No.

My phone rings again, and this time I check it in case it's Fran.

Looking down at my healed-over nub, I realize just how badly all these people have been tricked, how their anger was used against them, how they were manipulated into volunteering themselves as shark feed.

It's not.

It's Laura.

Laura, it took one.

I know.

And I'm sorry for all of this, I really am.

But yours was the last door, so it's all over now.