My son, Michael, was even more direct.
“And what if something happens to you? Who’s going to take responsibility?”
I simply smiled.
“I’ve managed to survive for sixty-two years. I think I can take care of myself for another seven days.”
The day after arriving at the resort, I met Daniel.
He was around sixty years old and unusually thin. His arms were almost skeletal, his cheeks were sunken, and his wide smile gave his face a strangely boyish appearance.
He approached me while I was struggling to drag my beach chair across the sand.
“Let me help you,” he said.
I laughed.
“You look like you could use some help yourself.”
He laughed too.
We spent a long time talking that day.
The following morning, he suggested that we take a picture together.
“But not an ordinary picture. I want you to give me a piggyback ride.”
