Suddenly, Harry stood, picked up his towel and motioned for Logan to do the same. The beach got old, Logan could see it in the lines in his forehead, in the way he kept glancing toward the clouds. Bare, sandy feet were shoved into ratty Reeboks and they headed to the car in silence, Harry a few paces ahead, determined, Logan with his head down, hands in his pockets. It's not so bad, Harry thought, don't be a sore loser. Sure, I could use a burst or two of sophistication, we all could. Who couldn't use an injection of maturity now and then? Lonnie's note wasn't so much targeted toward any individual as it was a commentary on our society as a whole. And nobody could deny that Harry was still behind the steering wheel of his aging, but perfectly functional, hatchback.
"Do you mind cooking dinner tonight? I've got a bit of a headache." Harry put the car in neutral and let it wander gently into the crosswalk. Logan looked back at his father, startled.
"O-okay." The only thing he had ever cooked besides mac and cheese was that multi-colored bread he made when he was like four. But if Harry really wanted him to...
"There's a grocery store a few blocks ahead." An injection of maturity. We could all use one, really.