Chapter 10: The Coastal Road
Two hours north of the city, the jagged industrial coastline gave way to rolling salt marshes, stands of Atlantic white cedar, and the vast, open expanse of the gray ocean.
Gabriel drove a dependable, unpretentious station wagon down a winding two-lane road. In the backseat, Caleb was strapped into a state-of-the-art child seat, his wide blue eyes gazing out the window at the gulls wheeling through the salt mist.
They turned down a crushed-shell driveway leading to a weathered cedar-shingle cottage nestled between two low sand dunes. The house was old, built in the 1940s by local fishermen, featuring a wide screened porch that faced the tidal flats. It smelled of brine, wild bayberry, and dry pine needles.
Emma was already there, sitting on the front porch steps, holding two steaming mugs of coffee. She had taken a six-month sabbatical from the hospital, joining a rural maternal health initiative in the coastal counties.
Gabriel parked the car, stepping out into the fresh, untainted sea breeze. He unbuckled Caleb, lifting the four-month-old boy into his arms. The baby let out a happy gurgle, kicking his legs against Gabriel’s ribcage.
"You made good time," Emma said, rising and walking down the crushed shells to meet them.
"Traffic was nonexistent after the river crossing," Gabriel replied, smiling as Emma reached out to tickle Caleb’s chin.
"How is he breathing?" she asked, her doctor's instincts immediately surfacing.
"Like a bellows," Gabriel laughed softly. "He slept through the night without a single cough."
They walked up to the porch together, looking out over the marsh where the afternoon sun was breaking through the sea fog, turning the water into sheets of liquid copper.
May you like
"It’s quiet here, Gabe," Emma murmured, leaning against the railing. "Almost too quiet after fifteen years in the trauma bay."
"Quiet is what we need," Gabriel said, resting his hand on his son's warm back. "It’s time to learn how to hear what actually matters."
