Grey, silent, its eyes as big as fists. Marine biologists cordon off the area with neon-orange pylons and sun-yellow tape. Selfie-fanatics skirt the barrier for a photo—smiling, thumbs up, laying claim.

Weeks pass. Someone steals an eye. The heart goes missing. The blowhole is plugged with stones.

Children spiral and whoop around the decaying carcass. Tourists peer inside the cage-like ribs and trail hands along the curved railroad of spine.

Across the ocean, another whale approaches, mistaking the ping of a ship, the vibration of an oil drill, for a mate. It glides through the dark, cool, water. Searching.