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The Light at the End

Bill Andrews always ran the north end of the beach on Wednesdays, but this morning starfish littered the sand. Not a few, but thousands. He stood, quietly perplexed, as the winter sun glinted off the Atlantic and the waves lapped gently at the fields of dead and dying creatures. Here and there, pointed limbs flexed slowly toward the endless blue sky as if grasping for some kind of mercy that was not coming. The news made little of the dying and the article buried deep on page five.

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