“He made another crack. So I lunged for him, and he ran like a son of a bitch. I never saw anyone leave a bar so fast. Then they kicked me out of the place for pulling a knife, but I didn’t care because at that point it was about, you know, honor.” He glanced at the twins, and at Talbot, and finally settled his gaze on Winkle. “I looked for him when I got outside. Tool must have hopped a bus or something. Otherwise, I would have finished him.”

No doubt, Karen thought. Colby had long ago nicknamed himself “El Destructo,” and together, the two of them had destroyed all the plans for their respective futures made by parents and guidance counselors—even the ones they’d made themselves. At the height of their rebellion, the vice principal had caught them having sex in one of the portable buildings, and on the following Saturday night, Karen served as lookout while Colby set the portable on fire. He was lead guitarist for his band Jake and was going to hitchhike with the other members to Athens, Georgia; Karen was going to go with them and be their manager. But last summer, the bassist somehow got himself accepted to one of the state schools, the singer became a Jesus freak, and the drummer coaxed his Mustang past ninety at the south end of Courtenay Parkway and rolled the car into the swamp, landing upside down in the water with a broken neck.

Karen assured Colby he was good enough to be a solo act, since he’d written all the songs himself, and told him she still wanted to go to Athens and be his manager. Colby, in response, smashed his Gibson against the side of a dumpster. A week later, he proposed. She accepted, and told her mother the news, which started a fight culminating in Karen’s threatening to move out and never be heard from again. But it didn’t matter. Within days she caught Colby lip-locked with a girl from Cocoa Beach, and shortly thereafter he was arrested, sentenced, and sent away.

Watching them gathered now in the gray-blue light of the pole lamp, she realized her late entrance would be seen as a strategy, and that it was doomed because it was going to make her look nervous. But she wasn’t nervous—not very. She’d planned on running into Colby. She’d dressed for it. She’d insulated herself with Talbot and, instead of Lam, this dingus of a bonus prize, Winkle. Seth was Colby-the-ex-con now, but he was also Colby-her-cheating-ex-fiancé, and that, if anything, ought to give her grounds for striking a pose. She took a deep breath and dug a cigarette out of her jacket pocket.

Colby tried to close his hunting knife and dropped it. He danced a sandaled foot out of its path.