Jacob sets his stance. Knees bent, weight low, arms wide—the posture of a linebacker reading the snap count. His eyes are locked on the nearest shark.
The cactus field is dense. Six feet between plants, nine at the widest gaps. Black spines everywhere, catching the faint tower-light like a forest of obsidian needles. Not much room to maneuver. Even less room to be wrong.
"Wouldn't it be easier to send an archer out here?" I ask Boris. "Pick them off from range?"
"And how's an arrow supposed to hit something swimming under the sand?"
"Make them jump out."
"That's exactly what we're doing." Boris tilts his head toward the field of spines surrounding us. "And we've already got plenty of arrows."
The pieces click.
Dodgeball. Use their own momentum against them. Bait the charge, dodge at the last second, let the cacti do the killing.
Ironic.
The first shark moves.
