And God said, “This shit is cray.”

His mother used to hum a lot when Patrick was young, some nameless tune she probably couldn't have named even if Patrick had thought to ask. But he picked it up quickly, rolled it around on his tongue as he'd spin through the ice-heavy water. Eventually he'd add his own flourishes, bits of indefinable notes he picked at random because they sounded nice, and by the time he was on land again, Patrick would have a new song in his head. Most of the other penguins would roll their eyes at the little kid sliding happily over the ice and singing wordless songs at the top of his lungs, but Patrick didn’t care. And neither did his mother, who would smile and pat his head gently.