The neighbor boys were threatening to kill each other again. They stood face-to-face in their swim trunks, swords raised, torsos arched toward the sun. The brown-haired one lunged first, whacking his red-headed friend across the hip. The redhead stumbled and then recovered, swinging his plastic blade at his friend’s neck. Smack, smack. Stumble. Smack. Our whole vacation this battle had been raging outside our little rented beach house.
Paul walked into the kitchen as I watched from the window. “I can’t believe there are parents who actually give their sons swords to play with,” I said.
