She’s washed up on the shore like a ragged doll. That’s what she appears like from a distance.

It is not the season for mermaids, you remember, and that fills you with concern for her.

As you approach, you see she’s clothed in winter gear, as though whoever or whatever plucked her out of the ocean had been thoughtful enough to make sure she didn’t freeze to her death on the beach.

“Where did you come from?” you ask her.