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The tempest gripped the tiny bungalow, alternately shaking and releasing it in the dark. On the walls, tidal clocks, cheap ocean prints, and other nautical knickknacks rattled in competition with the pounding surf. Alan paced, his eyes shifting from the rafters overhead to the unseen storm unfolding out the black window. At times, his eyes rested on a bag in the corner, a hint of bright silver-wrapped box poking out from amidst beach towels.
Alan avoided Lydia’s glare as best he could, knew her eyes saw his balls hanging up on the thin wall next to something that looked like a Barbie rising out of a giant clam shell (“Mer-Made To Have Sea Fun!”). Little June (age six) and Amanda (age five) just clung to their mother and oozed terror.
An especially strong gust of wind ripped at
