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Timothy paid and left. The path was packed and dark orange, made of dirt the color of one of his sister's conté crayons. The heat seemed to fight him, trying to keep him away from the water, but he pushed through it, trudging off the path and over the dunes until he was spit out on the beach, lightheaded from heat and freedom. He waved at a familiar fisherman who stood pulling fish out of his net and throwing them into a large basket.
"Baba?" the man asked.
"With Maria," Timothy said. The fisherman was Timothy's neighbor and knew Maria. Timothy thought they were related somehow, somebody being married to someone else's brother or sister, he wasn't sure. The fisherman nodded and smiled. The people who lived around Timothy seemed so gentle and happy, not pushy like Craig.
Timothy reme
