Phil Moody crouched beside his daughter as she sat cross-legged on the wet sand, and tucked his coat around his knees. Jeez, he thought, the weather forecast wasn’t wrong about the change.

“What are you doing, love?”

Arabella had her palms pressed flat to the sand, head tilted, as though listening for something underneath.

“Saying goodbye.”

“Goodbye to what?”

“My friends.”