LAST WINTER, WE went on vacation to the Caribbean. When the plane landed, we were so exhausted we could barely lift our bags. We checked in at the hotel, and got rid of the suitcases, and without unpacking went out the gate to look at the casino. A guard pointed us in the opposite direction from the beach, down a lonely dirt road, a five-minute walk from the hotel gate.

The casino was a small white stucco building, with bars on the windows and a brown wooden sign. There were some German tourists in there, and I overheard a couple of Americans talking, but the rest of the faces in the room were either friendly employees or locals—whatever, black people, people from there. I played blackjack, and I was on a roll. Winning relaxes me; at some point in the night I was up two thousand dollars. Diane played the slot machines, going all night without a hit, waiting for me to finish. I cashed out because the place was closing. It was just after one in the morning. We were practically the last ones in there, definitely the last white ones in the place. They paid out my winnings and I followed Diane to the door.

I had a buzz on. I put the money in the belly of my shirt, because I couldn’t carry it all in my pockets. It was half the cost of the trip, although that wasn’t an issue. Two guys came out of the casino behind us, local guys, and we nodded to them and they went to their car. They pulled it around in our direction. Diane looked back and saw the car; she looked at me—there was that funny moment—and then she started running down the road.