Troy

“Look at that thing,” I said to Keaton as we pulled the skiff to shore once again, the high tide beginning to retreat as we dragged the skiff onto the beach. I tied the rope to the stake above the shoreline, double checking the knot before looking back at the dog, who was following Maeve around as if she were a mother duck, and he was the duckling. “That’s it. That’s his name.”

“What is?” Keaton asked, wringing water from his shirt. We had almost ...