#Chapter39
/"Hiya, fishes,/" Ronan mumbled around the thumb that was lodged in his mouth, wiggling the spare fingers in a wormy half-wave. /"I'm Wo-Wo. Be friends?/"
The Nemo fish didn't answer. It circled around the screen in a lazy orbit, spitting bubbles and swish, swish, swishing her tail. She was beautiful, a neon blend of white and orange, and as Ronan leaned forward, pressing his face closer to the phone, he was enthralled by her grace.
He loved dancing. He'd always compared it to flying. To being free. But watching the fishy, watching it weave and glide through the currents, he decided swimming was a lot like dancing.
So there was only one logical choice from that point out: He wanted to be a fishy when he grew up.
