He snapped anyway. The lens caught a faint glimmer. “Maybe it’s driftwood,” Catherine suggested, but her tone was unconvincing. “Or a rock exposed at low tide?” “It’s moving,” John answered, never lowering the camera.
Another subtle surge rose, as if something tried to heave itself free and failed. The water foamed briefly where the mass met shallow sand before settling. Catherine hugged her belly. “John, if it’s alive, it might be hurt. Or trapped.”