 Fertoni will say, Fertoni. Corals are resilient, I've been told, and so are we. We've survived worse. Just ask your elders, they'll lift their shirts, show you bunker scars, typhoon tent towns, atomic nightmares of lost, irradiated islands. So this is just another incoming tide to shore up against, hence seawalls, hence foreign aid, hence consultants, terms of references, a framework for asking each other which island will we move to, which island will be hit first, which island is worth salvaging, the wreck, a slow moving accident, the ultimate disaster, etolic oblivion. As if we haven't experienced this before, as if we haven't been told that evacuation is safer, you'll come home someday. 2030, 2040, long-term versus short-term, we debate this around the table. We do the work, submit reports, but we are short on time. Before the clock strikes midnight, before the pumpkin rots, before our glass island shatters, are we so easily broken? Maybe we need flags to tell us how afraid we should be. We have flags for COVID threat levels, yellow for safe, yellow for prepare, yellow for complacency, yellow worth celebrating, COVID free. The U.S. is celebrating, part of it anyway. They are dancing in the street and kissing babies because celebrations are worthy, because the U.S. will be back in the Paris Treaty because it feels like multiple breaths taken at once, like bubbles bursting through reefs. We reassemble ourselves. We gather the calcium carbonate to grow our coral skeletons into sunlight. Look, up ahead, a lush marine garden awaits, for Tony will say, for Tony.