The boy’s high-pitched commentary, half shouts, half incoherent bursts of excitement, rose above the rhythmic wash of the tide. He narrated everything, from the shape of his sand pile to his theory that “a real treasure” was buried somewhere nearby.
Claire tried focusing on her book, but the words kept swimming. The tension in her neck, which had melted away on the drive here, was creeping back in. This was supposed to be the quiet corner of the beach. She’d picked it carefully.