Page 77 of Reeves

Waiting.

Benjy keeps explaining the trap layout, tracing new lines in the sand while he talks, but I’m aware of her in a way that makes it harder to focus. The shift of her weight in the sand. The way her gaze doesn’t move off me right away.

I force my attention back to him.

"So what's the plan?" I ask Benjy, refocusing on his eager face.

"First, we dig the main trap deeper. Then we make it look like treasure is buried inside. Then we build the smaller ones along the escape routes so they can't get away when they fall for the big one."

"Sounds like you've thought this through."

"I thought about it all morning. I even drew pictures."

He pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket. Crayon drawings of circles and arrows and stick figures wearing pirate hats. The planning is detailed for a five-year-old.

"This is good work. Real tactical thinking."

Benjy beams at the praise.

"Mom said you know about strategy and stuff because you're in the military."

I look toward Charli again. She's moved closer now, near enough to hear our conversation clearly. Her expression stays neutral, but I catch something softer in her eyes.

"Your mom's right. Strategy matters when you're trying to catch pirates."

"Or bad guys?"

"Or bad guys."

"Do you catch bad guys?"

"Sometimes. When they're hurting people who can't protect themselves."

"Like bullies?"

"Exactly like bullies."

Benjy nods seriously, processing the connection. Then his attention shifts back to the trap project.

"Okay, so should we start digging?"

I stand and brush sand from my hands. "Let's do it."

The work falls into a rhythm as Benjy kneels at the edge of the hole, scooping handfuls of sand with a determination that reminds me of myself at his age. Every movement purposeful.

"Pack the sides tighter," I tell him. "Loose sand collapses."

He follows my instruction without question, patting the walls with his small palms until the structure firms up. Then he looks at me, waiting for approval.

"Better. Now we need bracing."

I scan the shoreline for driftwood pieces the right size. Benjy scrambles to his feet and starts collecting sticks without being asked. Smart kid. Sees the next step before I explain it.

Charli works quietly beside us, arranging rope and palm fronds across the trap opening. Her movements carry the same careful precision I remember from watching her organize study notes in college, only now I’m close enough to see the sand clinging to her skin, the way her focus doesn’t waver even when I’m right there.

"This piece should work," she says, pointing to a weathered branch half-buried in the sand.

We both reach for it at the same time.