Conditions were perfect, with a hurricane raging in the Bahamas, for empty conch shells to wash up in the current, onto the shore, buried in the sand.
He was five feet away from me and did not flinch, nor was he scared in the slighest, although we were in a desolate part of the island where the deer tend to act wilder.
I stumbled upon him trying to find the path out. I actually asked him, “Where’s the path?” “I’m on it,” he replied with his eyes. (That’s right, I talk to the deer).
