His arms were leaden. Each slow movement had to be tested cautiously to see how much it was going to hurt. Even in areas where he could not remember being hit, his muscles felt as though they had been dipped in cement and rolled in broken glass. It was a day of high, white, scattered clouds that frequently masked the sun, and a fresh northwest wind with a hint of chill in it. After he had breakfast and cleaned up, he hobbled slowly out onto the beach, dragging an ancient gray navy blanket. After he had baked for nearly an hour, Betty Larkin said, “Good morning! I guess you feel better.” She beamed down at him and dropped lithely into a Buddha pose on the corner of his blanket. She wore a pale gray one-piece swim suit with small blue flowers embroidered on it. She carried a white rubber cap and a big towel. “I feel just fine. I feel just a little bit better than if I was poking myself in the eye with a stick.” “I saw you out here, so I went in and changed. Hope you don’t mind?”
