I own a pair of UV lights that I hook up to my computer twice a week to ward off seasonal depression — or in my case, four-seasonal depression — and I do have slightly darker skin than most Caucasian males, but it was foolish of me not to have lathered myself in SPF 1000.

“I’m gonna get you a cold washcloth,” Ingrid says, then disappears.

A moment later, Lassie bounds onto the bathroom vanity.

He reels back and hisses at me.

“Dude, it’s just a sunburn.”

Meow.

“No, it’s not Ebola.”

Meow.

“Because I haven’t been in Liberia lately.”

Meow.

“A sunburn. I was burned by the sun.”

Meow.

“Well, that’s because you are covered in hair.”

Meow.

“Because the smarter a species is, the less hair they have.”

Meow.

“You’re not the one who looks like who?”

Meow.

“Who is Freddie Krueger?”

“Come on!” Ingrid shouts from somewhere. “Food is ready.”

Lassie jumps off the vanity and zips from the bathroom.

I grab my phone and text my dad that everything went smoothly, that the sun is more magnificent than I ever could have imagined, and that I hope Murdock is feeling okay.

A moment later, he sends me a picture of Murdock lying on the couch with a giant cone around his neck, his enormous mouth drooping onto a pillow, his eyes staring daggers at the photographer.

Underneath the picture my dad has written.

He knows.

I contemplate showing the picture to Lassie but think better of it.

I give myself one last glance in the mirror — my brown eyes framed by a crimson face glistening in goopy translucent green — and walk to the back deck.

Ingrid has prepared a big plate of sandwiches, another green smoothie, some lemonade, and a bag of caramel corn. She has everything set up on a stunning picnic table with an attached umbrella. Three citronella candles keep the mosquitos at bay.

“You should probably try and stay out of the sun,” she says, draping a cold rag around the back of my neck. She adds, “Lobster boy.”

We both laugh and I ask, “Who is Freddie Krueger?”

“Why?”

“Lassie said I look like Freddie Krueger.”

“Oh, did he?” she says, sneaking a quick peek at where Lassie is taking a post-breakfast nap on one of the chaise lounges. “Freddie Krueger is the bad guy in a bunch of horror movies. His face is all burned up and he has this razor glove he wears on his hand. He haunts your dreams and if he kills you in your dream, he kills you in real life.”

“So nobody ever wants to go to sleep.”

She nods.

“Sounds like my life.”

“Freddie Krueger never got laid by the hot detective.”

“Right,” I say with a laugh.

She gives me a long kiss, then we hold hands and watch the sunrise.

::::