The fog rolls in with the tide, and in the early morning gloom it's impossible to see the barriers between earth, sky and sea. The stony beach reveals itself to me one footstep at a time, and there's something comforting about it; it feels nice, against the backdrop of life's uncertainty, to know that I only have to worry about the next step.

This is not a popular beach for visitors. It's too cold and stony, and not at all picturesque. There are other parts of the shoreline, beaches just a few miles north or south, that attract more tourists and vacationing locals. But the emptiness of this particular shore is its greatest appeal to me. I did not come here to soak up the atmosphere; I came to be by myself so I could think clearly. Or, maybe, so I wouldn't have to think anymore because for days now all I've been able to think about is how everything is in ruins. The investor's meeting where I have to explain to our most prominent shareholders how everything has gone to shit since I inherited the business from my father, but it wasn't my fault, he gave me this mess and the roots trace back for decades and it's all only now starting to come to a head, and of course I'm the person who --

-- Just thinking about trying to explain it makes me feel sick.

Up ahead, a pier thrusts out into the foggy water, and I decide to turn, bearing left so I can climb out onto it and feel the salt air and the rhythmic, weightless thrum of waves tumbling in underfoot. The ocean and its mist can swallow me up, I think, and I welcome that thought. Being part of the ocean means not having to think about my own struggles for a little while.

A large sign at the entrance to the pier reads, "NOTICE: Catch and Release Area."

It's an odd place for sports fishing, I think. But it doesn't mean much to me. I'm not here with a fishing pole and a bait bucket, after all; just a head full of troubles and a few free hours to try and forget them.

Despite the early morning chill, I shrug out of my suit jacket and fold it carefully, setting it down on the pier safely away from the edges. I step out of my dress shoes and roll up my pants, peeling off my socks so I can pad barefoot out to the very end and sit with my feet dangling over the edge like a little kid. Mist tickles the soles of my feet, and I brace my hands behind me and tilt my face up into the sky and allow my mind to wander. For a little while, all I can hear is the rhythmic pulse of the waves, and I let it drown out everything else.

Then I feel the hand curl around my ankle.

The rough, sandpapery palm abrades my pale bare skin as long webbed fingers curl around it. Tighten. Pull.

The world tilts up under me, and I flail for purchase on the slick, damp surface of the pier. I feel my shirt come untucked from my pants, my bared skin sliding against the wood. I twist, grasping desperately for something to hold onto, but it's too late. There is no time to grab anything, and nothing to grab if there were.

For a moment, I am weightless, suspended in midair.

Then I hit the water and am pulled under its rolling surface.

I twist in the grasp of the thing that has me, trying to get a clear look. The salt in the water burns my eyes, and as the pale morning light grows farther and farther away, shimmering above the surface, I struggle to make out much at all. But I can see her outline clearly enough: The body of a shark, sleek and dark, the curve of a dorsal fin. But instead of the shark's face and mouth, a human torso, naked and slender, the weightless drift of long hair forming the edges of her silhouetted profile.

A mermaid.

I am being dragged deep beneath the ocean's surface by a mermaid.

The thought of it is enough to send a giddy thrill of surprise and absurdity through me. For a moment, I am too shocked to be afraid.

But the grip around my ankle does not loosen, and I am dragged down, down, down.

The light from the sky dissipates into a ripple, then a pinpoint far overhead.

Another figure approaches, bringing with it the glow of a bioluminescent light. She grabs me around the shoulders, wrapping a long, pale arm across my chest to pull me close. Her skin is not so rough as the shark's. It glides smoothly against mine, almost slippery, but her grasp is firm. As she leans over my shoulder, her face inches from mine, I can make out jagged rows upon rows of sharp teeth crammed into her too-wide mouth. Even with her lips closed, the points of teeth stick out at angles, balanced only by the size of her huge dark eyes. The yellow-green light bobs at the end of a tendril rising from her forehead.

I struggle in their grip, but it's no use.

A third figure approaches, her silhouette made strange by the long tendrils and fins, the bars of dark and color that cross her fish parts -- a lionfish, I think, in some distant part of my brain that watches everything as a distant observer, disconnected from the horror of this current reality.

My lungs burn with the desperation for air. My lips part, bubbles bursting out in a stream of precious exhalations, but there is no air to draw back into them. The panic sets in. I start to thrash in the grasp of the two mermaids even as the third approaches, taking the hem of my shirt in her webbed hands. She tugs it up, exposing my belly, and runs a scaly fingertip along the skin of my torso. A sharp nail digs against the soft skin at the hollow below my ribs.

I scream, but the sound is absorbed by the water around me. All that comes out are a trail of bubbles and the terrible ache of empty lungs.

My throat spasms. I can't keep the water from pouring back into my mouth. I choke, sputtering, but the water soaks in to press against my tightening throat. I feel my pulse in my ears, a deafening drumbeat. My limbs go stiff, my fingertips tingling with cold and the raw burn of cells screaming for oxygen. I cannot move, not even to thrash, not even to fight against the strong hands and arms holding me under the surface.

The lionfish mermaid lets go of my shirt, running her clawed fingertips along my forearms now, then my legs, as if examining every inch — almost as if she were measuring me. Her hands bury themselves into my hair, clawing against my scalp as she grabs a fistful of hair and jerks my head back to peer down into my face.

Her own face is just inches from mine, close enough to study every beautiful and inhuman detail of her face. But it seems to be drifting away, going distant and fuzzy and dark, and it takes me too long to realize that it's not the mermaid that's vanishing but my consciousness. Like being pulled down a long, dark tunnel, the visible light of the world narrows to a circle, then a dot, and there is only darkness.

Time passes. I am unaware.

It's my hearing that returns first.

A distant rhythmic pounding of waves. A seagull. An insistent ringing in my ears.

Then the dim realization that there is something solid beneath me. The polished wood of the surf-pounded pier. The water around me is gone. There is air, sweet, precious air.

I hear voices nearby, cutting through the darkness.

"I think we killed it."

"I TOLD you not to take him so deep!"

"What? You're the one who insists on measuring them! It took way too long!"

"Shut up, both of you. It's not dead. Look. It's breathing, I think."

"Then why isn't it moving?"

"Poke it with something!"

I try to call out. I try to move, to roll over, to open my eyes, to ask for help — anything. But my body will not cooperate. My throat is still swollen shut. I must have gotten air into my lungs, somehow, but breathing still feels impossible. Everything burns and aches. I wish I could see who was talking. Their voices sound so strange, accents I don't recognize. Why can't I see? Why can't I move?

The darkness shimmers and deepens. It tugs me back toward unconsciousness.

"It's just...dazed."

"Dazed. Right. Of course. Tell THAT to the warden."

"Oh shit, the warden."

"Yeah, exactly."

"He's going to have our tailfins if we get caught..."

"Just drag it back down into the water."

"What?!"

"Drag it back in here. We'll just eat it. There's no point letting it go to waste..."

"But we're in a catch-and-release zone..."

"Oh for Poseidon's sake will you LISTEN to yourself? 'Release' doesn't mean 'Throw the dead one back on the shore,' you moron. Just grab it already."

My lips part in a silent scream. Don't, I want to scream. Don't. I'm awake. I'm alive. Don't eat me. But I can't make a sound. My lips just move, opening and closing soundlessly like a fish out of water

Strong, scaly hands tighten around my ankles, plunging me once more into the depths.

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