dry, sunbaked shell, about three feet deep. And there, on her knees at the bottom, was my daughter.
Amelia was scrubbing algae off the concrete with a stiff brush. Her little arms moved in jerky, exhausted strokes. Sweat drenched her hair, plastering it to her forehead. Her T-shirt clung to her back, soaked through.
Next to her sat an open bottle of continue reading …
