The girl lived with her parents in the Isle of Man, Scotland. Her house was nestled between the other plastered and wind-torn homes.

It was a Thursday and the girl began on her path to the oldest building in town, the school. It was neatly situated on the slope coming off the gravel dunes. It was part of an ancient church that had long since crumbled to grey stone. As the girl arrived, she opened the same small latch on the fence to keep the sheep out and strolled down the worn, dirt path. The creased, warm face of the teacher shined down on her average, sleepy day.

There was at least one thing that made the girl show her face at school, a friend, a girl, Lyall; they seemed to like each other. At lunch they talked quietly about the coast in the spring, and the gulls annoying the town, and their fathers who stay out too late searching for fish. Their window of school was shortening to dismissal. The little brass bell was rung by the teacher, and the kids snapped their legs straight and marched right out the door.
At the fence, Lyall said that they should go to the shore and talk. And they did, walking down the main street, reaching the end of the last building, arriving where cement turns to sand. The dunes were speckled with candied grass, with the yapping gulls scurrying away. The ice-frosted water reached up the sand and retreated and was pushed again by more of the deep blue sea. The sun had started to melt when they had left school, and now it was draining into the clouds, red and orange hot. Darkness seeped into their clothes and covered the gulls and laid a blanket over the town. They felt as if the homes drifted into the distant ocean and they forgot about homework or their worried mothers. Lyall plopped on the chilled sand and the other girl followed. Lyall held out her hand and the other girl’s hand clasped it. They sank into the sand and felt covered by moonlight.