He was from Savannah, in Orlando to attend a convention at one of the nearby hotels. “It’s just up I-4,” he told her, “a stone’s throw.” He showed up five consecutive weeknights, always alone. He wanted her to call him D.J. and, when he found out her last name was Ragazzino, told her he never would have guessed it because she didn’t look Italian. He chatted about the food, about the area, about the sensible overhaul of the Orlando International Airport. He spent nearly as much time at the maître d’ stand as he did at his table. He was tall and trim and solid, with good bone structure and a high, smart-looking forehead. He didn’t seem to blink, though after a while she realized that of course he blinked; it was just that his eyes were set a fraction wider than most people’s, his gaze slightly—and perpetually—intense. He wore his clothes like a mannequin: free of wrinkles and carefully tucked, as if a team of people had dressed him moments before he walked through the door. She felt like an idiot in her cowgirl uniform. On Friday, after he’d paid his check and was telling her good night, she complimented his tie, then touched the red bandanna knotted around her neck and said, “I hate this thing.”

“Hate’s a strong word.” He gazed at the bandanna as if transfixed by it. Then, perking up, he said, “I’m going to take a chance here. My convention is over, but I don’t go back to Savannah till Monday. Now, you just answer honestly. Whatever you say is okay. Would you like to go to Disney World with me?”

The boy hops down from the bar chair and then hops up again, backward, as if mounting a horse. He folds his arms over the brass studs that outline the chair’s leather back and studies the little man on the sofa.

“So, how many hotels do you own?”

“Three. Not counting this one.”

“All in Florida?”

The man peers at his drink, then drains what’s left of it. “I feel like I shouldn’t be forthcoming,” he says casually to Karen. “He looks like an activist, doesn’t he? For all I know, he belongs to some Greenpeace for hotels.”

“That’s funny,” the boy says. He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and shows the man—and Karen—his Greenpeace membership card. “Registered Green Party, too. And, of course, a dues-paying member of …” The end of this sentence is his ACLU card, raised before them like the apogee of a magic trick.

“Good Lord, the boy’s practically a Soviet.” The little man lifts his glass as if raising a toast to the bartender. She comes out with a bottle.