Friday clambered up the final dune, wincing as the hot sand burned the palms of his hands and balls of his feet. He could hear the breakers now: a rhythmic thunder that crashed ashore, punctuated by the occasional yelp of a seagull that wheeled overhead.
A cloud racing inland, harried along by the wind, offered a moment’s respite from the harsh sunlight. Friday perched beside a lonely clump of burnt-brown grass at the crest of the dune, and looked down at the beach beyond. The world was blue and gold; sand and seawater, ocean and sky all merging together as far as the eye could see.
The boat was gone.
Friday tiredly rubbed his eyes, then fell back until he was sitting in the sand, toes pointed skywards, and arms looped around his knees. He was definitely at the pick-up point — he could see footprints leading to the spot where the boat had been moored, but the boat itself was no longer there. His worst fears were realized: Thor and Woden had left him behind.
Friday was marooned.
