Footsteps sparkled in the sun, impressions in the soft wet sand filled by spray from the roaring surf.
He bent knee as a salty breeze pulled gently at a few wild strands of hair. The red plastic cup was battered but bright in his fingers, and he dipped it into the rising tide.
Triumphantly, he held aloft his glittering prize, marveling at the play of light on water. “There is nothing I do not control,” he whispered.
His words were lost in a dull roar. Behind him, the sea continued to swell, unabated.
