She took a slow sip from her thermos and tried, once again, to let the sound of the waves drown everything else out. That was when the boy came tearing back up the sand, shrieking something to his mother about the “cold water” and “crabs,” punctuating each word with a stomp that sprayed fine sand over Claire’s towel.
The woman didn’t look up, fingers still flying across her keyboard, murmuring only a distracted “That’s nice, honey” before returning fully to her screen. The boy’s trips to the shoreline became a loop; dash to the water, scoop up a bucketful, race back, and dump it somewhere questionable.