Brittany doesn't question the ethics of eating meat. She's a retired killer. She knows death – she's been death. She's not afraid to eat it. Or photograph it.
She swims in blood-tepid water with a pod of orange porpoises that slip over and around her body like they're in a pot of swirling noodles. One of them brings her a starfish, twenty-legged and spiny, then corkscrews away, delighted with itself.
At her hotel, the chef is ecstatic: the starfish is a delicacy, he would love to prepare it for her. Brittany forgoes the porpoise sashimi that night. It's been paid for.