It was cold. Luke was shivering and felt ready to fall over if he stood still long enough. Why were they still standing around outside, soaked through, when the door was right there?

He reached for Simon’s arm as soon as his aunt was occupied with his uncle instead.

“C’mon, yer mam’s right,” Luke said, pulling his cousin towards the house. He needed a barrier for when his own mother inevitably spotted him.

He could only imagine the strife the storm had put her through, worrisome as she was without turbulent weather.

As if it had been any easier on him.

On all of them, he corrected himself. All of them. Like his father and uncle Ben weren’t lighthouses, impervious to the angered winds and waves. Like Luke and the other boys weren’t building themselves up stone by stone to be the same.