One “LISTEN. IT’S SO EERIE.”
The night mist, smelling as salty as the ocean, swirled around Ivy and her best friend, Beth. The old-fashioned yard swing on which they sat creaked to a halt.
“Listen,” Dhanya said again. “It’s moaning.”
“Get a grip, Dhanya,” Kelsey replied. She was sprawled on a white Adirondack chair between the swing and the cottage doorstep, where Dhanya sat. “Haven’t you ever heard a foghorn?”
“Of course I have. But tonight it sounds so sad, like it’s—”