Greta has seen a little of Saoirse's soccer practice -- enough to know that, at her age, it seems to mostly consist of trying to teach the children that they shouldn't all try to kick the ball at the exact same time. She overheard one of the parents refer to the game as 'swarmball,' which seemed apt. But Saoirse has clearly been paying attention, and it ought to be less overwhelming with just two children involved. It's not as if there are goals to aim for or positions to play; they can just boot the ball around on the sand, hopefully avoiding the dogs and the water. The ball probably floats, but she doesn't think any of them would relish wading in after it.

She straightens, looking back at Sam with what ought to be mock offense, except she really can't help but return his smile. "Well, that," she starts, "is a--a baseless accusation. I'll have you know that I'd only take a few pictures before I pulled them off you." She folds her arms: point made. "Probably."