Sharks Are Killers, Noma Said.

On three, Noma stood, raising her arm out of the bucket and pulling four feet of thick, whitish slime into the air. She spurted a tiny blob of mucus, no bigger than a fish's eye from the hole closest to her wrist, then swirled her forearm in the water. Behind them, a small wrinkled woman in a black hat rolled her eyes. Enough now, she said, flapping her hands at them. The children wined, but scattered anyway, already interested in something else.