Nolan eyes the glistening bottle, damp from ice or pee, and nods. “Fine, but you’re pouring.”

The sky is the kind of pitch-black dark that makes you feel too small, where you can only just make out hazy puffs that might be clouds or distant galaxies.

I go home tomorrow, but here the whales can take a night swim and splash me into forgetting about everything except my growling stomach and the way Nolan’s back looks solid and strong even though he’s hunched over with his elbows on his knees, the wine bottle dangling from a hand. It had to be wiped clean because Alex forgot the paper cups, though he blamed their absence on Wally, too.

Nolan passes the bottle to me, and without thinking too much about it, I take a swig. Jenna’s disapproval at our three-way underage drinking radiates from wherever she is, and I try to appease her. Alex is almost as responsible as you, I tell her in my head.

“Pregnant,” Alex announces. He’s lying outstretched on one of the cushioned benches. Wally sits at his feet, occasionally licking the bit of exposed ankle between pant leg and shoe in apology.

He’s had a long day, I add.

“Wally is regrettably bereft of the necessary organs to support a pregnancy, Alexander. Try again.” Nolan stands with a little wobble, his posture made looser by the proximity to the water or the wine or both, and then arranges himself on the bench to mirror Alex, his head in my lap.

Alex throws the cork at Nolan, but he misses and it plunks into the water. Wally jolts up to bark but then thinks better of exhibiting any more bad behavior and sinks back down onto Alex’s ankles.

“I was talking about things I hate in books,” Alex says, like it’s totally obvious. “I hate when anything other than a person carrying a fetus is described as ‘pregnant.’ How can a moment be pregnant with silence? Is it going to give birth to silence? Won’t that be loud?”

Without being asked, I hand the bottle to Alex. He unsuccessfully attempts to take a sip while lying down and spills at least a quarter of the bottle onto his shirt.

I wince. Okay, I tell Jenna. This is a really bad example, but I swear he’s usually very sensible.

“Alexander’s brain is fried,” Nolan announces.

“Is not,” Alex says. “It’s relieved the bazaar is over, and slightly intoxicated. There’s a difference.”

“You’ve barely had two sips of wine,” I argue. “You can’t be feeling it yet.”

“You know what I am feeling?” Alex straightens up and hands the bottle to Nolan. “That my head is fuzzy from too many nights of too little sleep, and probably hunger-induced delusion. Let’s all share a stupid story. Go.”

Nolan and I look dumbly at each other and then at Alex.