It always came at this time of year, so he’d been ready for it. He would not give into it. He would not be like some of the other weaker children who had allowed themselves to drift into the fading mist, disappearing into nothingness. No way. Not after all this. He was a fighter, and if he was the last ghost child left on the island then so be it.
He opened his eyes and stood up again. Now was not the time for inward reflection or tears. The chin tremble could get lost, too. He attempted to spit, as young boys always do when they are perched high up in a tree or leaning out and over the edge of a tall building. He would dearly love to see a small wet cloud of phlegm shoot out and down into the sea below, but there was nothing inside him to cough up.
Instead, he turned away from the surf
