Zadie sprang up and searched for her mom in the crowd like the world’s most traumatizing game of Where’s Waldo? It turned out Nora wasn’t the only forty-something brunette on the beach that day. Her heart pounded as she scanned the sea of faces. It wasn’t until Zadie turned to look behind her that she saw her mother crouched in the sand dunes, inspecting something near her feet. Zadie hurried over and was about to ask Nora what she was doing when her mother raised a hand to silence her. Then she placed her index finger on her lips and waved her daughter over with the other.

Zadie stepped carefully through the beach grass to her mother’s side. “Look,” Nora whispered and pointed to a small nest made of grasses, pebbles, and bits of seashell. In the middle of the nest were three peeping, pink-faced chicks.

“What are they?” Zadie whispered back.

“Snowy plovers. They must be waiting for Mom to get back with food.” Nora’s eyes glistened with childlike curiosity as the tiny creatures craned their wobbly necks to the sky. “These little guys are on the endangered species list. They build their nests in the sand, so they often get trampled on by people. You have to be careful when you’re clam digging, too. You might not see them until it’s too late.”

“That sucks,” Zadie said. She had the urge to scoop up the hatchlings, feel the warmth of their featherless bodies in her hands. “How do you know all of this?”

Nora looked like she had surprised even herself. “I don’t know … must have been something I saw on TV.” She stood and brushed the sand off her hands. “Let’s go for a dip, dry off in the sun for a bit. Then later, I think we should do something crazy.”

Zadie didn’t particularly like the sound of that. “Like what?”

“Just name something you’ve always wanted to do and we’ll do it.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

She thought for a moment. “I’ve always wanted to dye my hair.”

Nora smiled. “I think we can arrange that.”

“Why do you want to be a blonde, anyway?” Nora lingered in the bathroom doorway, looking at a box of goldenrod hair dye as Zadie bent over the motel sink, hair sticky with bleach.

“Because I hate my hair.” Like most teenage girls, by her hair, she meant herself, but hair is easier to change.

“If you really hate your hair, then why dye it a lighter version of itself? What if you did something completely different?”

Zadie’s attention was piqued. She looked up at her mom. “Like what?”

“Stay there. I’ll be right back.”

Twenty minutes later, Nora returned with two boxes of hair dye. Zadie read the label. “Mermaid Blue?”

“I got one for each of us.”