That is not my hand, the man thought, as he watched one wash up ashore. 

And though, technically, it was his hand, it was not one of the two hands he would insist were his hands. So he stood to the side, both of his hands limp at his sides. And as his feet sank into cold gray sand and clouds thick with rain leered at him from above, he watched the drama unfold from near-afar. 

 He listened, as seven large children tossed the hand from one to the other like a deranged round of hot potato. Their high-pitched squeals and dry gags pummeled him on the inside. On the outside, he stood watching, shivering but calm.

 He looked down at his hands, and sent them a quiet promise that he would never abandon them this way, no matter what they had done. And he wouldn't, for they belonged to him. They were like children that from birth, he had vowed to care for. 

You are my family, he thought in their direction. We are a family.

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