Most of the time, people are floating in the endless surgent human society and lapped by those tiny and senseless surfs, and what people can only do is avoid the depression at the time.
Mitsima squeezed and patted, stroked and scraped; and there at last it stood, in shape the familiar water pot of Malpais, but creamy white instead of black, and still soft to the touch.
But they always let you know ping when it's time to go home, because while they may appear frightless, they're still flightless, and it's not like they can just wing their way beat.