Below the car decks, she supposes the sea outside has gone from Prussian Blue to darker things, more opaque. She can't see it, of course. In her berth there is no light and no porthole. Lying side-to the forward motion, the pitching of the ship becomes the rolling of her bed.
It is nothing like being in the belly of a whale -- she is sure of this even without ever having been in the belly of a whale. It is like being in a giant's cradle. The giant's daughters rock the cradle and whisper to one another about the tiny creature they have found; their father has not come home yet.
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