Rafi knew better than to ask how she recognized perfect. He didn’t need to know. Never again in life would he let perfect be the enemy of good. He had lived that way once, and it almost cost him everything. Combing the rocks now, he stashed away each bit of trash he came across, even the soft, crinkly, pathetic little half-serving water bottle no bigger than his fist. He’d found her again, here, after having lost her forever, found that pair of magic small beings he could see down the shore in front of him. He would never want or need anything more perfect than this.
