The youngest still called me "Mr. Ryan" in that cautious way kids do when they're not sure you'll stick around. The oldest, Noah, was nine, and he had a habit of watching me from across the room with his arms crossed, like he was conducting some silent interview I didn't know I was failing.
Around noon, the line at the drinks stand near the pier had gotten long, so Claire said she'd stay with the kids while I went. She kissed me on the cheek and said, "Go before it gets worse."
I went because I didn't know it was the last ordinary thing she'd ever say to me.
I already loved those kids like they'd come from my own bones.
I was gone for maybe twelve minutes.
When I came back, the kids were still digging in the sand. Claire's beach towel was exactly where she'd left it, her sunglasses folded on top of her book beside the cooler.
