It was the first time in ten years I’d returned to the Gale family cottage in Oak Bluffs for an extended stay—I’d only managed quick weekends here and there around my busy work schedule—and I was feeling mostly anxious with a flicker of anticipation. Preoccupied with the idea of spending the entire summer on island, I did not hear the commotion at my back until it was almost too late.

“Bruh!” a deep voice yelled.

I turned around to see a gaggle of man-boys in matching T-shirts—it took my neurodivergent brain a moment to decipher the Greek letters on their shirts, identifying them as frat boys—roughhousing behind me.

Is “gaggle” the right word? I’m sure they’d have preferred something cool like “squad” but, honestly, with their baggy shorts, sideways ball caps and sparsely whiskered chins, they looked more like a cackle of hyenas or a pandemonium of parrots. Either way, one of them was noticeably turning a sickly shade of green, and his cheeks started to swell. When he began to convulse as if a demon was punching its way up from his stomach, his friends scrambled to get away from him.

I realized with horror that he was going to vomit and the only thing between him and the open sea was me, trapped against the railing. In a panic, I looked for a viable exit. Unfortunately, I was penned in by a stalwart woman with headphones on and a hot guy reading a book. I had a split second to decide who would be easier to move. I went with Reader Guy, simply because I figured he could at least hear me when I yelled, “Move!”

I was wrong. He didn’t hear me and he didn’t move. In fact, he was so nonresponsive it was like he was on another planet. As the dude doing the herky-jerky lunged toward me, I gave the man a nudge. He didn’t respond. Desperate, I slapped my hand over the words in his book. He snapped his head in my direction with a peeved expression. Then he looked past me and his eyes went wide. In one motion, he grabbed me and pulled me down and to the side, out of the line of fire.

The puker almost made it to the rail. Almost. I heard the hot splat of vomit on the deck behind me and hoped it didn’t land on the backs of my shoes. Mercifully, Reader Guy’s quick thinking shielded me from the worst of it. Frat Boy was hanging over the railing and, as the vomiting started in earnest, the crowd finally pressed back, way back, and we scuttled out of the blast zone.

My rescuer let go of me and asked, “Are you all right?”