“Did you swallow water?” Spanish Voice is speaking directly into my face. His breath, of chewed tobacco and beer, is warm against my flesh.

“Not too much.” I cough some more.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, not hurt. Just . . . tired.”

“Open your eyes for me, chavala.”

My eyes flutter open. A tan man with a sheepskin-like white beard and a flashlight glares back at me.

“I’m okay,” I say. I start to move my hands, my feet, rolling my neck from side to side. I’m breathless, and in shock, but everything seems to be intact. I just had a scare.

“Ah, no. I didn’t save you.” He shakes his head. “He did.” He points a mud-caked fingernail to the human blanket that is holding me. I twist my neck so I can look at the person, but it’s making me dizzy.

Not dizzy enough, though, to miss the important part.

The pinnacle of my trip.

The person who is holding me is Smoker Dude.

And he doesn’t look like he is about to let go.

Smoker Dude saved me.

He is here, on Gran Canaria. At the same beach party. What are the odds?

I pinch my forearm, in case I’m hallucinating. He is still here, and now I’ve given myself a bruise. He notices and bites down a grin. I shake my head. Maybe it’s a concussion. But he looks so real, so alive, so warm, wrapped around me.

For a few moments, all we do is stare. No words seem adequate enough for what is happening here. We’ve beaten all statistical odds. Things like this only ever happen in movies.

Instinctively, I put a hand on his cheek. One last test to make sure he is not an illusion. His skin is rough and hot. I’m surprised I don’t burst into flames. I don’t know what it is, but I feel a hundred times more alive right now than I did a minute ago.

“You.” Smoker Dude cups my hand in his. His voice is hoarse. Thick. He didn’t know. Up until our eyes met, just now, he didn’t know it was me in the water.

“You,” I murmur back. “What’s your name?”

The suspense has been killing me. I’ve been obsessing about his name from the moment we met.

“Joe.”

“Joe.” I test his name in my mouth. Joe! Good ol’ Joe. Such a simple, unassuming name. I’m a little disappointed at his parents. That’s all they could come up with? Do they not know how rare and special their son is?

“Thank you for saving me, Joe.”

The Spanish man, whom I’ve forgotten all about in the last few minutes, salutes him. He stands up and ambles toward the promenade, disappearing into a cloud of people. I look around us, finally remembering that we are a part of a larger universe. We’re under a tree, somewhere secluded. The party is still in full swing. They’re doing the limbo now.