“It’s not quite a conventional-looking beach,” she said. “That’s why I like it. It’s odd. It’s not all smooth and pretty like most beaches. It’s like what your dad said. You can’t keep it in a box.”
“I like it,” I admitted. “Where is it?”
“Cuba. I cut that out of an article about the U.S. Navy Base there.”
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “For an afternoon of fun and freedom, you want to go to Guantanamo Bay?”
“Well, not the detention camp part, obviously. The beach.” Her face flushed with excitement. “Can we? Please?”
No. I don’t want to be your magic taxicab. But it was hard to feel ill-used looking at her pleading expression. And this certainly would be her only chance to visit that beach. Stop trying to please her. You don’t have to be that.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t wa
