The crabs tiptoed like tiny dancers across the sand, tentatively rushing from their burrows, marking the ebb of the sunset tide. The water seemed unsure of itself - its foamy afterthoughts getting swept up and distracted by long forgotten seaweed, sticking to the banks, swirling, reluctant to leave. Driftwood strewn about amongst the many eroded potholes of dried up coral beds.

This is where she always found her favorite treasures. That one she gave to her best friend for her 13th birthday - a completely intact sand dollar, already dried up and long gone - a rare find for anyone, especially a small girl with no education in patience. The conch shell from which she first heard the echoes of the ocean within its porcelain depths, no matter how far away she found herself from the sea.

The scuttling hermit crabs she took the time to catch, name, and release, only to pay them visits and call them by name each time she thought she recognized one.The brightly colored starfish that reminded her of kids faces glued to car windows, and that one scaredy-cat octopus that she convinced herself she would befriend, no matter how many times she had to seek him out and patiently wait, palm outstretched as far as her little arm could reach.

She hadn’t been back to this beach since she moved further inland, on the northeast side of the city, closer to work. She wondered, on her walk out, if she would see any hermit crabs and recall names she’d thought long-forgotten. But she wasn’t there to greet the crabs or even shake the hand of a not-so-friendly octopus.

Three quarters of the way down the beach, she saw a man standing there, marking the spot of the sea’s newly unveiled disgorgement. The most recent treasure dredged up and spit out by a beautiful, unforgiving expanse of blue. It was there, amongst a pile of regurgitated algae, seaweed and worn down pebbles, she saw it.

A single child’s sized shoe.

It looked nearly identical to a pair she’d had when she was 7. She thought she’d ruined that pair after one too many jaunts through the nearby woods and subsequent attempted tree-climbings. Now she wasn’t so sure… no this couldn’t be hers. Hers were blue, this shoe was an orangey-yellow, no doubt washed out from its time in the sea.

Now that she was sure her errant memory wasn’t skewing her conclusions, the real work began. How do we find the owner?