Cold. Humid. Rough.

     Right there, right then Minnie’s brain decides she loathes the feeling of wet sand underneath her feet; her toes stretch, rub, curl… yet she dislikes it no less.

     Yikes.

     Static she holds until another series of waves breaks around her ankles and washes most of the grainy sensation between her toes away; this time around she doesn’t flinch at the water’s oddly low temperature, but still the January sea proceeds to kick a shiver up her spine. Nighttime had broken upon the small Thai littoral town quite a few hours ago now, and were that beach anywhere else in the country it would most likely be crawling with tourists sipping on their 'nth' Singhas and blasting American music despite it being late in the evening and winter season. The lack of any human or solar heat around left only the chilly dawn breeze to dishevel her peach-coloured hair and whoosh across her dermal coating like papercuts, especially where the water had kissed it.

     Under the moonlight the shore glimmered with bits of broken shells and scattered rocks and can tabs, somewhat recalling the blinking stars above her head. There is a spark, too, in her eyes when she glances down for the first time and sees her hips stretch into a pair of legs, human legs—she gasps; only rows of shimmery emerald scales that started just below her navel and smoothed over olive-pale skin right above her knees reminded her that she wasn’t. Human, I mean.

     It takes her mind no longer than a few seconds to learn how to operate the new set of limbs, yet her body is definitely not used to… well, ending in feet. Nor was it familiar with the practical workings of Newtonian gravity. So, when Minnie tries and takes a step forward her knees falter and she wobbles, falling with a hiss.

     .

     The grey matter beneath her skull processes the touch of sand against her right palm differently than it did her soles: it’s somehow considerably more pleasant; it also sends a stinging pinch to her left hand, which she then notices rolled tightly in a fist.

     Right.

     Minnie straightens up on her knees, unclenching her fingers to reveal it: the ring.

     She ponders for a moment if such a small thing was worth all the trouble, if it was worth her time and risking exposing her kind over. Her father thought so, however. And her father was only wrong whenever he didn’t take the guidance of a fossil-old oyster only he could hear whisper seriously. And everyone back home knew better than to doubt that whispering, fossil-old oyster, even the innately skeptical like Minnie.

     When icy water tickles the tip of her toes the little voice of pride inside her encourages her to try again: if she had been ordered to return the ring, the ring she was going to return. Even contemplating the possibility of her first delivery also being her last makes her stomach churn and the hair on the back of her neck stand up – she couldn’t let that happen (or else her brothers would never let her live it down).

     You have been preparing for years now. You got this. There’s absolutely no way you can screw this up… or can you?

     Albeit awkwardly, the half-woman at least manages to rise up on her newly acquired feet. Walking takes her a bit (a while, actually), but her chest swells with pride when she finds herself stepping on dry sand seven times losing her balance, twenty-two baby steps or an hour later – she pants softly. Now, stopping is necessary not only for her to catch her breath, but also the time has come she needs to focus.

     Slung across her chest is a seaweed-woven strap connected to a (faux) dolphin leather sack big enough to hold a pocket-sized book, a 6-inch sub or maybe the seven oceans’ smallest, voted most annoying pet – the Fishihuahua (source: Sea Pets Magazine, vol. 647). Out of it, though, Minnie fishes out a seashell the size of her hand, which she then holds to her right ear.

     Focus – she squeezes her eyes shut.

     Where to, you bloody ring?

     And then she hears it.

     Beyond the splashing of the ocean, in ancient Whaleish she hears a voice sing. The translucent patch of skin between her ribs glows where her heart is, and that’s all the indication she needs to know deep within her soul she understands the ring’s directions:

Sunrise behind the golden horizon, dwelling code 502. Condition: poorly kept, proceed with caution. Client has just entered slumber phase number two; you act on three. Sleep talking is your cue. May Mother Mar guard your way, princess.