Owen McCuen

The others mumbled agreements.

Tim stood up and motioned with his finger for me to come down.

I could see he was concerned about something.

He led me into the front berth.

He closed the door behind us.

Without saying a word, he pulled back the comforter and pointed to a spot on the hull.

At first, I didn't see anything, mostly a crumpled sheet and another misshapen seam on the fiberglass.

Tim, seeing I wasn't getting it, leaned over the bed and stuck his finger near a sharp object.

I looked closer, expecting to find a chunk of the boat sticking out.

I gasped a, "'What the hell?'

and touched it lightly.

When I turned to Tim, his face was a hodgepodge of emotions.

"'I don't get it,' I said.

"'How could a bone be stuck in the hull?'

Tim told me to look closer."

I did, and instantly saw my mistake.

The bone wasn't stuck in the hull as though someone had rammed it in.

It was embedded, a part of the hull, as though when the boat was made, they'd mixed bones in with it.

I shook my head.

What could I tell him?