“I think I saw a pelican when we crossed the bridge to Wrightsville Beach,” her mom commented with forced lightness.
“Gee, that’s swell. Maybe you should call the Crocodile Hunter.”
“He died,” Jonah said, his voice floating up from the backseat, the sounds mingling with those from
his Game Boy. Her ten-year-old pain-in-the-butt brother was addicted to the thing. “Don’t you
remember?” he went on. “It was really sad.”
“Of course I remember.”
“You didn’t sound like you remembered.”
“Well, I did.”