Moira sits on the sand and waits. The tide tickles the bottom of her feet, then washes over her body. And she waits. Weary green eyes on the horizon. Wet tresses crusty with salt frame her trembling face, and her lips round as she blows out every shaky breath.
Three hours she’s waited here, in the soft grey sand between the sharp and glassy rocks. Three hours with nary a sign. The garrison said they were coming home. They…
