flip-flops (4)

Jamie had dragged the cooler across the gravel like a man hauling treasure. He wore the flip-flops, of course, because he always did. Said they were “freedom in shoe form.”

Sand between his toes, music in his hand, laughter trailing behind him like wind chimes. They’d gone into the water together. He’d gone farther out. Just far enough. Just too far. The current took him in silence. The lifeguards tried. Everyone tried.

But some things don’t try back. Now the tide came in whether she watched it or not. Her therapist called it “grief static”—that low, ever-present buzz that filtered everything.