Before the living can even see it, they smell it: droppings from millions of birds piled over centuries on a treeless island. The stench is alien for Huang Achai. Even after months of breathing air polluted by salt, excrement, sweat, and death, his nostrils have never been so brutalized. From the hold, all he can do is look up and see bright strips of sky sear through the deck’s floorboards.
Hope bucks beneath his feet.
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