She rubs hard circles of factor 50 into his skinny limbs, flattening the fine hair into thick swirls. Tommy mashes a sandfly into his arm. A tiny burst of crimson becomes a fuchsia smear in the white cream. She adjusts his sunhat until the ties cut soft valleys in his plump cheeks before he charges off along the shingle.
She wakes to his voice. “Mummy, look!” His hands are locked around the thin cane of his fishing net which bows and bounces heavily.
Iridescent, slick grey thrashes in the net. The jaws are open in a soundless gasp, tiny sharp cones of prehistoric teeth uselessly stabbing the air. “Tom, how…?”
“I scooped it out the lake! It’s really heavy!” His eyes are shining.
She parts her lips but the eel is suddenly still, the jelly sphere of a helpless eye frozen on her.
Tommy’s face is a tiny Oooo.