Donald stood in the doorway, one pail in each hand, arms akimbo. Allison sat at the table in the kitchen, looking up from her crossword.
“Is that more sand?” she asked, though it was obviously more sand. She could see it spilling onto the carpet.
“Yes,” Donald replied, his back straight, his jaw shut tight.
“Where did you get it?”
“Doesn’t it belong at the beach?” Allison asked, mustering as much sweetness as possible.
“No,” Donald shook his head. “God told me He put the beach in the wrong place. The beach and all its sand belong in our basement and I’ve been called upon to do it.”
“Honey, God doesn’t make mistakes.”
“Read the Old Testament some time,” Donald huffed, and with that he marched into the basement to continue his reconstruction of the beach.
Allison put down her crossword and went into the home office. She pushed away the tax forms that cluttered the desk and booted up the old laptop. Within a few minutes, she had found a chart detailing American life expectancy.
19.8 years. She could manage that.