Noah said nothing for a moment.
Then, for the first time that afternoon, he faced the water without recoiling.
“Can I keep the picture?”
“It’s yours, Buddy.”
Noah held the photograph gently, then gave it back to me so he could rise.
He walked toward the wet sand again.
Not to rebuild the whole kingdom.
Not all of it.
He crouched where the waves had softened the ground and pressed one handful of sand over another.
One tower.
Small.
Uneven.
Hardly higher than his shin.
People watched but kept their distance.
Noah pushed the tiny American flag into its peak.
The next wave rolled up the beach.
It curled around the tower.
The sand slumped.
The flag leaned to one side.
For one terrible second, I expected him to begin crying again.
Instead, Noah laughed.
He rushed forward, pulled the flag from the foam, and lifted it over his head.