Asher guesses they slept about an hour, and he feels more rested than he has in ages. Neither of them has moved a muscle in their sleeping and as soon as Asher opens his eyes he sees that Justin is completely still. A little old man lying there asleep.

Asher knows he has to get up and see this place, to feel it and smell it and hear it and taste it. He has to find Luke. And Asher has to get up and press on for himself, too. For Justin.

That’s when he hears the sirens.

He stands, ready for them, accepting that this is over, his mind racing but not telling him anything. The family nearby is watching him with some amount of unease, he thinks. Maybe his face is all over the news now; he has no way of knowing. He needs to get to a television. The mother holds the baby close to her chest, eyeing Asher over her shoulder. But maybe he’s just being paranoid.

Shady howls at the passing sirens, his head thrown back. Justin does not flinch, lost to exhaustion.

And then the three police cruisers zoom on by, speeding to something on the other end of the island.

Asher sinks back down on the throw. Vomit rises up in his throat. He coughs the acid off the back of his tongue and wipes his mouth on his forearm. Cold sweat lines his forehead and he puts his head between his knees to keep from throwing up again. Shady pads over to Asher and licks at his ear. After a time Asher gives Justin a little shake.

“Come on, buddy,” Asher says, acting as brave as he can. “Let’s get this all figured out.”

On their way to the car they pass a concession stand trailer. Hand-lettered signs cover the side:

2 hot dogs fries coke $5

cold cold key limeade $2

famous smathers burger $3

fried plantains $3

A window is cut into the side of the trailer and a man leans on a small Formica counter, reading a battered paperback. This is as good a place to start as any. Asher asks Justin if he wants anything.

“No,” Justin says. “I’m good.”

“I’m gonna have a limeade. You sure you don’t want one?”

“No,” Justin shakes his head, “gross.” He is watching the swaying fronds of palms above them as if hypnotized.

“Hello, boss,” the concessions man says when Asher approaches, laying aside his book. The cover shows the title: Piedra de Sol. “What can I do you for?”

Asher orders the drink and watches as the man pours the limeade from a clear plastic pitcher with lime slices floating within. Asher’s mouth waters at the prospect. By the time the man hands over the wax-paper cup its sides are already sweating from the heat.

Asher gives him two dollar bills. And then, too abruptly: “You don’t know of any work around here, do you?”