“They’re coming up from the tide pools, Ethan,” Claire whispered softly into the breeze.
Running across the lawn, his sturdy six-year-old legs moving with that fierce, untroubled velocity of pure childhood joy…
Came Leo.
Our son.
He was magnificent.
His dark hair caught the morning sun in brilliant, golden-brown highlights; his cheeks were round and pink, glowing with that fierce, un-killable Mercer vitality that had survived the dark. In his left hand, he carried a collection of smooth beach stones and sea glass; clutched securely in his right was his fully restored 1957 Mack toy truck, its black wheel securely bolted, its paint polished to a deep, radiant crimson.
He ran up the cedar steps of the deck, throwing his arms straight around his father’s neck:
“Daddy! Look! Uncle David helped me polish the front grille! It looks brand new!”
I leaned down, lifting my son into my arms, feeling his warm, steady, untroubled pulse beating strong against my ribs, his small hands gently touching the bronze transit pin on my collar.
