Mr. Macey (Macey’s grandfather; Austin liked how her first name was her grandparents’ last name) appeared with a can of gasoline. It was one of those red metal cans you filled at the gas station. Dented, scratched, discolored. It held two gallons. From the way he swung it, it wasn’t very full. The beach was dark, so Austin’s grandfather turned up his heavy flashlight to light Mr. Macey’s way.

Putnam Macey and Henry Fent had been friends for seventy-five years. Austin could not get hold of that: seventy-five years.

And the contrast between his grandparents and Macey’s! Austin’s grandmother, Monica Fent, still weighed what she had in high school and took Jazzercise classes three times a week. Henry Fent was seventy-nine and could nearly hold his own with Austin. Macey’s grandparents, however, took naps for afternoon exercise and never seemed to think beyond the next meal. It mystified Austin that Mr. and Mrs. Macey could feel they had interesting lives when all they were really doing was rolling out pastry dough.

Mrs. Macey sat way up on the dry sand on a stone as big as a wheelbarrow. Austin knew the stone: It had a cupped top that held rainwater like blood for a sacrifice.

He spotted Macey. In the path of several flashlights, she looked strange and shadowed. He could see only half of her, as if she had been cut vertically, like a paper doll. She too wore a canvas jacket unzipped, and it flailed in the wind, and her hair went spinning over her eyes. He drifted over to her, because they were the only people under forty.

She smiled. “Hey, Aus.”

“Hey, Mace.”

They had never had more conversation than this.

He waved at the woodpile. “I didn’t know what all that wood was stacked up for,” he said, although of course he’d been at plenty of summer bonfires. It was just something to say to a girl. “I figured it was some sort of sand temple.”

“Oh, absolutely. Driftwood worship is a real problem around here,” said Macey. “People guard their children against it.”

They laughed.

Austin’s grandmother said, “Good evening, Macey. How are your parents?”

“Fine, thank you,” said Macey.

“Tell your mother we miss her.”

There was a barb in this that Austin could not pick up, but Macey apparently did. She smiled tightly.

“Your parents are so busy, Macey,” said Austin’s grandmother.

Austin got it this time. The old Supermom, Superdad problem. Lack of time for children, et cetera. Macey did not look particularly deprived to Austin.

“Mrs. Fent,” said Macey, “do you remember the fire? The one that burned down the barn that belongs to the Demitroffs now?”