Luke tumbles out the big beach-hut door, bare feet slapping the hot sand. Bunting snaps overhead, tablecloths flare every colour, and the sea pops with light.
He spins and screams, 'WAAAH!' while Mommy grabs his hand and laughs.
Luke plops onto his chair, squishes a whole strawberry onto his face, and sneezes so hard a crumb launches off his nose.
Dadda grins and hands him a napkin. Luke grabs a slice of bread and stacks it on another — then another — then ANOTHER, four high, wobbly, dripping with jam.
Luke pats and presses his way up a tall, wobbly sandcastle.
TILT, CRASH — wet sand sprays over his socks and he stares at the ruined tower.
Mommy scoops a fistful of sand, plops it on the base, and together they rebuild it shorter, sturdier. Good.
The sun drops below the waves and the whole beach sinks to soft purple. Then the moon peeks over the water and everything glints silver.
Luke tilts his head back, toes pressed into the cool glowing sand, and whispers, 'The moon made the beach shiny.' Shhh goes the sea.
Mommy and Dadda each pull Luke into their arms, three heads tucked close under the big round moon.
The beach hut sits quiet behind them, lights still on, the table still set with crumbs and jam.
Luke's toes curl into the sand. Shhh. Shhh.