The beach trip was supposed to be fun. It was supposed to be an easy day—just sand, waves, and the sun beating down on their backs.

Charlie had been a menace the entire time, kicking up sand, throwing shells at seagulls, and trying to smash Aspyn’s carefully built sandcastle. Every time his mom or dad told him to stay close, he’d giggle and sprint toward the water, daring them to chase him.

Aspyn sat on their towel, arms crossed, watching their little brother with a scowl. "He’s gonna get himself killed," they muttered, but no one really listened.

Charlie was near the shoreline now, waves licking at his toes. He squealed in delight, kicking at the water, then taking a few more steps forward. It was cold but fun, and he liked the feeling of the wet sand sinking under his feet.

"Charlie! Not too far!" their dad called.

Charlie didn't listen. He never did.

The waves were small, harmless, so it didn’t seem like much of a risk—until the water suddenly pulled back, dragging sand and seashells with it. Then, just as quickly, it surged forward, stronger than before.

Charlie’s feet slipped. He shrieked as the wave yanked at his tiny body, pulling him off balance. Suddenly, he was underwater, tossed around like a ragdoll. He tried to scream, but all he got was a mouthful of saltwater.

For the first time in his life, Charlie was terrified.

He kicked, flailed, his little hands grasping at nothing as the water churned around him. He didn’t like this. He wanted out. Now.

Then, suddenly, a painful yank on his arm.

Charlie was ripped from the water so fast his body jerked like a doll on a string. He coughed, gasped, then sobbed, clinging desperately to whoever had grabbed him.

His dad.

Charlie buried his soaked face into his dad’s chest, crying, water dripping from his choppy blonde hair. His whole body shook, his tiny fingers digging into his dad’s skin.