Someone Else's Eyes

He crouched down slowly, the way adults do when they've decided a child is something breakable, and held out one hand — not for the wallet, just... held out.

"I'm Weston," he said. "You found my wallet. That was very honest of you."

"I wasn't gonna keep it," Poppy said, a little offended. "Mommy says taking things that aren't yours makes you a thief, and thieves go in the news."

Something that might have been a laugh caught in his throat and turned into something else. He was still looking at the photograph, which she hadn't handed back yet, held flat against her raincoat.

"Can I ask you something?" His voice had changed. Careful, like he was walking on the frozen pond by the maintenance shed that the sign said absolutely not to walk on. "Why were you looking at that picture?"

Poppy held it up so he could see. "Because that's my mommy. But she doesn't have a yellow dress. And we never went to a beach. So I don't know why you have her at the beach."

He didn't say anything for a long moment. A very long moment, for a grown-up.

"What's your mommy's name?" he asked finally.

"Naomi," Poppy said. "Naomi Hale. What's it to you?"

He made a sound like someone had knocked the air out of him.

"Is she—" He stopped, started again. "Is she here? Right now?"

Poppy pointed toward the coffee cart by the gate, proud of herself for knowing the answer. "She's getting hot chocolate. She always gets extra whipped—"

She turned to point properly, to show him exactly where, and stopped.

Her mother was already there. Ten feet away. Not at the coffee cart at all, but frozen mid-step on the gravel path, one hand still curled around a paper cup that was tipping, forgotten, hot chocolate sliding over her knuckles and onto the ground.

She wasn't looking at Poppy.

She was looking at Weston like she'd seen a ghost climb out of the fountain.