The Psychedelicatessen is another building that stands out. It’s the island’s only café, run by a husband-and-wife team, Suzie Q and Johnny Come Lately. They seem to know how weird they are, which is comforting and funny because otherwise they would be pretty scary. They wear matching leather jackets with Hell’s Angels written across the back, even when it’s way too hot. Their motorcycles are two of the only vehicles on the island, along with some mopeds and three or four golf carts. I don’t know if electric wheelchairs count. The Psychedeli looks just like the name sounds, like a tie-dyed shirt with skeletons wearing top hats and Come on inside for a little touch of grey . . . graffitied underneath. The couple next door helps them when they get really busy—Helen and Nancy, who are only sixty-six and sixty-seven. People under seventy are usually called “youngsters” here, which got more complicated when I arrived, ’cause some people started calling me “the youngster” and then people got confused about whether someone was talking about a youngster or the youngster, but it’s not such a huge problem that we have to call the Coast Guard or anything and we have plenty of free time here, so sometimes it gives you something to talk about.

A bunch of Swans are doing tai chi outside the chapel. They really do look like birds when they do it. When I manage to leave the house on time in the morning I like to stop and watch them. Secretly, I’d like to join in, but the Swans usually don’t like it when I join things. Today there’s no time to stop, but I slow my pace a little. I like the dinky Quaker chapel. It’s compact, made of white stone and wood. It doesn’t think it’s the shit like big cathedrals do. The chapel’s just another house, really. The only thing that sets it apart is the one tower, square like a chimney but taller than any of the others, with a big iron bell hanging inside.

God, I really want to stop today, watch for a while, go into the chapel and sit in the pews and think, or maybe ring the bell a couple of times. Something about this morning is starting to sting. A few minutes with Rose will help. The pie gives me an excuse to pop in.

Rose has little chimes above the door that tinkle gently when you walk in. It’s a nice touch.

Rose lifts her warm, walnut face from her accounting book. “Hi, Sugar!”

“Hi, Rose. Brought you something.”