While we’re hanging out with Earl still explaining the ins and outs of trash explosions and his late wife’s mothering philosophies, and how they hitchhiked to Woodstock from Vermont when she was pretty much ready to pop out her second ankle-biter, and he had the first one strapped to the front of his overalls, the boat from Duck leaves its moorings and bobs over the waves toward Swan. The idea of a small boatload of brainy college dudes rocking up here doesn’t bother me, but when they do that tossing-the-rope-on-the-pier thing sailors always do, the Swans are not having it.

Frances and Gretchen have come down from the Oceanic, and by now most of the Swans have assembled on the beach. One of the sunbathers starts to get up and puts a towel on, but seeing how the others stay where they are, naked and wrinkly and proud, she gets back down on her towel. She looks embarrassed, though, and that makes me pissed off at the kids on the boat, too.

So anyway, an older dude (older in mainland terms—like forty or something) hops off and approaches Frances and Gretchen on the dock. After a couple of minutes they come down to confer with Mrs. Tyburn and Giddy. The dude from Duck starts waving his arms around and pointing at the island. Another antique diaper blows a thick, soft-edged column of brown-gray smoke into the air; he points over and goes, See? like we didn’t see the six or seven that happened earlier, like we always just stand here staring at Duck Island in the afternoon.

Mrs. Tyburn, Giddy, Frances, and Gretchen walk him back to the dock, kind of half pushing him like bouncers. It’s pretty awesome. I move closer to the dock to listen in. Rose comes too. It seems like they’re letting Mrs. Tyburn do all the talking, which is appropriate, seeing as she always acts like she owns the place.

“We’re not unsympathetic, this much I’m sure you understand. But you simply must respect the basic rules of our community.”

The Swans are getting restless. “Take it to Star!”

“Thank you, Grover.” Mrs. Tyburn smiles at Grover, the island hobo. He’s really a retired investment banker, but he always wanted to be a hobo when he was a boy growing up in a fancy house, so on Swan he lives in a tent on an inlet on the north side and eats out of tin cans with a rusty old spoon.

Mrs. Tyburn goes on: “Yes, I’m sure they can spare some fresh water and camping space for the night on Star Island until you’re able to make meaningful contact with your university.”

I guess they wanted to stay here on account of all the extra rooms in the Oceanic.

“Shove off, smooth face!” Earl shouts.

“Go back to the Bad Place!” Giddy adds.