I lie on a towel, on a beach, on a continent, on a planet. I sip lemonade that has bits of bread from the sandwich I’m eating. The crumbs become plankton in my eyes; the food of whales. A whale beaches itself to get at my lemonade, also mistaking the bread crumbs for plankton. “Mr. Whale,” I say,”this is not plankton, it is but moistened bread.”

“I know not of moistened bread,” the behemoth replies, “but I know my mistake was a deadly one. And please, call me Stanley.”