58

Asher

ONE WEEK LATER

I’ve always loved the smell of the ocean.

When I was a kid, I’d spend my evenings with my father on the docks. It had to be late, nearly sundown, because of his busy schedule, but I didn’t care. I didn’t even mind that all we did together was carve driftwood with our pocketknives. No amount of splinters could ruin the joy I felt from being at his side.

Will I get the chance to do the same with my own children? Imagining sitting with them on the docks, our feet hanging over the water, has my heart thrumming. They’d count the boats or ask me to name the different fish strung up on lines. They might want me to take them out to cast our own poles. The idea of such serenity gives me strength.

“It stinks out here,” Mila grumbles next to me. “Like dead fish.”

Ignoring her comment, I turn my face away from the gust of wind that tugs at my thick, knee-length jacket. The chill of winter is unmistakable in the air. “You’re sure this is the place?” I ask.

“I don’t fall for fa