Dante’s lower lip is getting wobbly with fear, so I try to lighten the mood. “I hope they have flood insurance.”
He doesn’t know much about insurance and it’s not a great joke anyway, so I can see the tears welling in his eyes.
Then Mikhail roars, throws Dante over his shoulder, and sprints away from the shoreline, screaming about a tsunami. Dante erupts in giggles. When Mikhail plops him in the sand, he hops up and chases Mikhail back towards the water, the ruined sandcastle already a distant memory.
Oh, yeah—Vacation Mikhail is the best.
We walk back to Mikhail’s beach house—one of half a dozen different beach houses dotted around the globe, I’ve learned—and dinner is already on the table. It’s fried pork and red beans with coconut rice on the side. Apparently, Mikhail keeps a local
