Good news, Haein: Ephrim is neither a god nor blessed with superhuman reflexes. His good arm and stub of a right arm both will pinwheel wildly, his coffee going flying as he yelps - yelps - and falls into the water. That splash? That spray? The sight of Ephrim coming up for air, neck deep and sputtering? It's beat for beat gratifyingly perfect.

Here Ephrim is, turning around sluggishly, pushing wet hair from his face with his good hand as the rest of it lays plastered against his head and floating in the water like black seaweed. He blows water from his mouth, blinking furiously at the figure on the dock.

"What the fucking hell is your problem," he spits, and then he recognizes the silhouette. Oh, that's what the fucking hell problem is. "Whelp," he hisses next.