The golden boy would shake his head, say he was sorry, he was supposed to keep all that a secret, and start running again. Or throw the Frisbee, the bright yellow disc sailing over the sand. Jumping, catching it, flipping it back, leaping for it, falling, splashing. Running and running, feet pounding the sand. Walking, laughing, brushing fingers. Screaming, into the cold water, and back, then Gavin had to go back, so he could be there when his brothers woke up and asked him questions where he had gone so early by himself.
“Tomorrow? It’s my last day. We go back on Friday,” the golden boy said as they walked back to the path over the dunes to the cottage the Bookers had rented.
“Really? We go back on Saturday. Daddy paid for one more day. You can’t stay longer?” Gavin sighed. I finally ha
