“It’s in the wrong place,” he screamed.
Seaweed draped the foreshore like a bad comb-over. I could see this wasn’t pretty, but it skewered Anton’s brain. Once, when we’d taken up kitchen floor, and he glimpsed the terrible truth of soil beneath the house, he’d bawled that way.
“Just storm waves,” I explained.
But we had to labour all morning, returning every strand to its home in the water before he’d calm.