The Vacationers

"He's looking in the wrong end."

"He takes after his father," she replied. Louder: "Will, be careful with that, honey."

They rested on the church steps overlooking the piazza; their son was three long, purposeful strides away. "He's fine."

"It's an eight-hundred-dollar camera. Plus the lens—"

"I can take it from him if you want."

"No, just… I dunno, keep an eye on him."

"I was already doing that, babe."

The camera was eventually set carefully down and forgotten as the child took to running full-tilt at groups of pigeons. "Where to next?"

"Home?" She rested her head on his shoulder.

"The hotel already? It's only—"

"Home home."

He glanced at the list in his hand; it was a column of mostly crossed-off landmarks. "It is all starting to blend together," he allowed. "Should we tell him to stop chasing the pigeons?"

"It's not like he's going to catch one."