He waits for a drink but the boy’s idle, watching girls near the shore. He signals for him, his arm rising up against the bright sun and the girls snicker, their lips pink, teeth bright and wet. We met just after the war, a survivor of Somme, a generation lost, he said, yet I’m here. Did I think you up? I wonder. Eyes the color of eels, a slug for a mouth. It’s a pity you’re so pale, I tell him, I confuse you with ghosts. We wrap them in blankets and lay them side by side, oyster shells and skate eggs, the plaice dry on the sand. We had a rabbit in the trenches, named him Scat. Scatter scatter, run run. At night we swim, the waves are black, I can’t see him below. He hunts for shells in the shallow water and walks ahead, his thick calves pushing through water. It’s midnight and the moon’s low, my skin dead below the weight. An oily lot, he says.