Twelve
The weather had been dismal the entire week and a half Henry had been in Washington with flat gray skies and unending rain, and while it certainly explained why the western part of the state was so gloriously green, he was glad to have woken up to clear blue skies this morning. He still couldn’t believe the vegetation here, so tall and lush, nor could he quite grasp the fact that he was wearing shorts and flip-flops and heading down a steep set of stairs to a broad, sandy beach on the twenty-third of November. It wasn’t warm by any means, and the perpetually damp air left a chill in his bones that even ten below back home didn’t, but with the sun out and a high of fifty-two, it felt more like May than almost Thanksgiving. When he’d talked to his mother yesterday, she had informed h
