Poppy couldn’t look away. Scott’s red face had become purple. Sweat now poured from him.

On and on he went. Surely he must be exhausted, she thought, but his movements were still tight and practiced. Digging and digging, like he had been born for this and this alone.

Suddenly concerned that he was driving himself toward cardiac arrest, Poppy got up to intervene.

“Hey, dude,” she called as she approached. Part of her was afraid that if she startled him, he’d let out a primal scream, bludgeon her on the head with the plastic shovel, and drag her out to sea.

Scott did not directly acknowledge her, but he stepped back from his hole and stared into it as she joined him at his side. He was panting, his skin was deep red-brown and crinkled like beef jerky, and he smelled sharply of raw onion and booze.

“Jesus,” said Poppy, disturbed by the hole now that she was looking at it full-on. “Nice grave you’ve got yourself there.” It was the perfect size and shape to hold a coffin.

“Guess so,” Scott said, humorless.

“You know,” Poppy said, “just last week a lady at some beach in Florida died in a big hole some nincompoop had dug for shits and giggles.”

“Huh,” Scott grunted.

“Heard about it on the news,” Poppy said. “She was out for a walk at nighttime, the tide was on its way in, she slipped into some big hole right along the beach, just like this, water came up and over her, hole caved in, and she was swallowed up by sand.”

Scott said, “She had to’ve been drunk.”

“Maybe,” Poppy said. “What compels you to dig something like this, anyhow?”

Now that he had paused from his mission, the heat and fatigue seemed to be setting in, and Scott looked drawn and unwell, unsteady on his legs.

He tossed the shovel to the ground next to the hole.

Poppy said, “Why don’t you go for a swim, cool off a bit?”

Scott spun like a robot following commands. Poppy watched just long enough to make sure he didn’t die of heat stroke before reaching the ocean.

As soon as he had entered the water, Poppy hightailed it to the house.

She found Lisa seated on a barstool in the kitchen, sipping a glass of white wine and paging through an old copy of Redbook.

Poppy said, “Hey,” in a gentle voice, went to Lisa, and wrapped her arms around her.

Lisa patted Poppy’s forearm but did not exactly reciprocate the hug. Her eyes were dry, her expression cold.

Poppy said, “How’d it go?”

Lisa sipped her wine and turned the page of the magazine. “Did you talk to him just now?”

“Yeah. Very weird. He spent the last who-knows-how-long digging a hole on the beach. Grave-sized, perfect to bury a person.”

Lisa chuckled through her nose.

“He seemed wrecked,” Poppy said. “Like he just got his gut punched. I figured that the two of you had it out”—Poppy blew air out the side of her mouth—“and that it did not go so well. He was looking rough.”