On the first sunny morning of the week, a new boy stood at the edge of the sandpit. He held a little red spade very tightly, and he did not dig.
Mia was busy patting a sandcastle flat. But she kept glancing over at the boy. The boy's shoulders were up near his ears, and he wasn't looking at anyone. He just watched the gate, as if he wanted to go back through it.
Mia went a bit quiet. She knew that feeling — the standing-very-still feeling, when everything is new and you don't know where to put your hands.
"Mom," Mia whispered, "that boy looks all by himself."
Mom nodded gently. "He does. What do you think might help?"
Mia thought. Then she scooped up a small handful of sand and let it trickle out slowly, the way she liked best. She took one step, then another, until she was standing beside the new boy.
"I'm making a hill," Mia said. "You can put your spade here, if you want. Hills need a lot of spades."
The boy looked at the hill. He looked at his red spade. And then, very slowly, he crouched down and pushed the spade into the sand. A little scoop. Then a bigger one.
Together they patted and piled and patted again. The boy's shoulders came down from his ears. When the hill got tall enough to poke a stick in the top, he laughed — a small surprised laugh, like it had slipped out.
"It's a mountain now," the boy said.
"A mountain," Mia agreed.
They dug until it was time to go. At the gate, the new boy waved his red spade. "See you tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," said Mia.
That night, tucked under the covers, Mia thought about the tall sand mountain and the small surprised laugh. Her eyes grew heavy and warm. Somewhere outside the window the evening went soft and blue, and Mia drifted down into sleep, still smiling a little.