Page 12 of Since the Day We Left

Her pulse hammered in her ears. Max never wandered far. He had to be close. She cupped her hands to her mouth. “Max, want a treat?”

The familiar phrase that always grabbed his attention had to work, right?

She listened, straining against the sound of waves. Nothing.

Scenarios flashed through her mind—Max swept out by a wave. Max falling into a crevice between rocks. Max taken or worse ...

“Max!” His name tore from her throat, sharper now.

Wendi fumbled for her phone, flicked on the flashlight, and swept it beneath the rock outcropping. Just sand.

She sprinted along the shoreline, calling his name, pausing between calls to listen for the faint jingle of his collar tags. “Please, Max! Where are you?”

No pattering of paws. No scampering black blur.

Nothing.

4

Miles

“Lookatthat,”Arthursaid, stopping in his tracks. He nodded toward the water, where moonlight bounced off the waves. “Would’ve been perfect to paint. Should’ve brought my gear.”

Miles followed his gaze. “Yeah?”

“See how the moon’s hitting the water there?” Arthur pointed, tracing the path with his finger. “A bit of white with navy—dark gray for the shadows. The trick’s in the shine.”

Earlier, his dad might’ve forgotten for a moment that Miles was his son, but he could still rattle off paint colors as if reading from a catalog.

They continued along the dry, cool sand as waves rolled in with a steady hush, and stars blinked overhead.

“Remember that lady who kept saying I used too much orange?” Arthur asked. “At the show in Buckhead?”

Miles nodded. “Mrs. Marcy. She still bought three of your paintings.”

“Should’ve charged her double.”

“Too late now.” Miles laughed. “We could come back tomorrow or next week and bring your supplies.”

Arthur’s face brightened. “Yes. Late morning would be perfect. The light’ll be different.” He turned slowly. “The tide’ll be lower. Those rocks will make good foreground elements.”

Miles made a mental note to check if they had enough canvases. He’d also need to dig out the travel easel—the one he’d bought for Arthur’s sixtieth. They’d taken it on weekend trips to the mountains. Despite his dad’s complaints about “lugging this garbage,” he’d admitted, “it did the job.”

A spark of unexpected comfort flickered inside Miles.Maybe the beach is helping?

Dr. Mendez had mentioned how environmental triggers sometimes helped ground patients in their memories.

“Remember how I used to bring you here?” Arthur asked, hand at waist level. “When you were about this high?”

Or maybe it isn’t helping at all.

Dr. Mendez had also warned him that the disease could progress in unpredictable ways.

Miles felt a familiar ache catch in his chest. “We never came here, Dad. We only came to this beach once—after ...”

Arthur frowned slightly. “Right. Of course. You were afraid of the water that day.”

Miles shook his head gently. Now more than ever, it was the simple places that held the most weight—the ones he never thought would matter, until they did. “We never swam here. You’re thinking of Eagle Lake, remember? That’s where you taught me to swim.”

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