The wheels of your chair are clogged, immoveable in the dry sand. Pushing harder, we bump our way down to the water’s edge, to where the sand is wet and firm. Taking the small brush from your bag of accoutrements, I brush off your wheels and let you be. I lie back and watch as the clouds play chase.
Charlie waddles up and down the damp strand. The others all stand in a large group calling to each other. They don’t talk to Charlie. He isn’t allowed to talk to them. Charlie turns tail and heads back over the strand, he hasn’t had much luck today finding worms. He is getting hungry.