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Sandal

The longhorn sharks mill around the buoy like people at a continental breakfast buffet who, having spotted the one remaining cheese danish, are now trying to figure out how to dive for it politely.

“I don’t understand,” whispers Sandal, “the evolutionary advantage here.”

“Well, ramming–” Bud starts, before a fifteen-footer illustrates his point. The buoy swings wildly; he plunges off.

“Bud!” screams Sandal.

“It’s okay,” sputters Bud, treading gently back toward the buoy. “It’s okay, I don’t smell like blood or anything, right? Nice shark? Nice sharky,” and then he pets one and tears all the skin off his palm.

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