“Dad. Language,” Maya said, grinning.
“Twenty-three years,” Gerald said, a flicker of pride in his eyes.
His wife, Elena, was trying to meditate in the passenger seat. Their daughter, Maya, age nine, was pressing her forehead against the foggy back window.
He ran. Not a jog. A full, barefoot, flailing sprint across the hot sand, past the lifeguard stand, over the boardwalk, his Hawaiian shirt billowing behind him like a distress flag. He hit the pavement of Ocean Boulevard and saw it: the orange and white hook of a tow truck, backing toward his rental sedan.