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 capsized the skiff as we broke over the reef where the waves crashed into the shallows with vigor. Keaton had gotten the worst of it, the wave soaking him from the neck down.
“Duck, that’s a perfect name for him.”
“You’re naming the thing now? I thought we weren’t keeping it.”
“Try telling that to Myla and Maeve,” I said, shaking my head
