The shark’s been following him for days, he thinks out of curiosity more than anything. Every time it comes too close he kicks it right in the fin. It doesn’t make any difference, but it gives him something to do: the middle of the Pacific Ocean is the most boring place on earth, hands down. He’s been making a graph in his head for over a month. It’s pretty complex.

There’s a trick to walking on water — not how to do it, since it’s not like that’s a secret or anything, but how to do it well. It’s a neat trick if you want to make a point about how rad you are, but it’s less efficient than just waiting for the damn ferry. He’s been kicking himself for the last two weeks, but what the hell. It’s not like he has anything else to do.

“Trouble?” purrs the shark, looking either malicious or concerned. It’s hard to tell with sharks — it’s not like their eyes tell you anything, and that smile isn’t exactly reassuring, though of course it’s not like he has anything to worry about except that the stomach of a shark is almost exactly as boring as the middle of the ocean.