Suddenly armed, I didn’t know what to do. I’d never held a gun before and now I was supposed to hold it for real. I couldn’t bring myself to put a finger on the trigger. I pointed it at him, afraid it might go off.

His Oakleys had fallen and he squinted up at me, the sun too much for his colorless eyes. He sneezed.

I said, “Don’t move.”

I kept looking down at the gun, everything out of focus around it.

“Get in the water,” I said.

“What?”

I glanced around. No one was watching.

“The water—get in.”

“No way.”

I thrust the gun at him and it worked. He perched on the edge of the dock, looked down, and said, “Jesus Christ.”

“Do it.”

He lowered himself down between boats and treaded water. His shirt ballooned around him and he scowled at me, bobbing on a swirling surface.

I backed away, the gun aimed in his direction until I reached the gate. Then I sent it spinning like a Frisbee and it landed in Salty’s Marina with a gulp.

6.

The next morning, I tweezed the splinters from my leg. I thought I’d only suffered cuts when I fell on the dock, but overnight the pain had intensified, as if something were bursting from within, and I realized there were dozens of wooden teeth embedded in my skin.

Seated on the edge of the tub, I had to bite down on my leather sunglasses case while I burrowed deep, extracted each red splinter, and doused the spot with peroxide. By the time I’d pried out all the shards, I was drenched in sweat and exhausted. The housekeeper didn’t say a word when I handed her a heap of bloody towels.

I went down to the kidney-shaped pool and soaked my numb, swollen leg, blood still leaking out in dark threads that briefly floated before dissolving. As I swooshed it, water rushing between my toes, Tori called. She’d asked around and learned that Zeke had stayed at the House of Brothers, an Evangelical men’s refuge in Manatee. She could take me there if I gave her a ride home after work.

“You said you’re paying, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Meet me at the Glades at six.”

—

When I picked her up, the tang of freshly cut grass and her onion-sweet sweat filled the Focus. I cranked the AC, trying to put her on ice.

On the road to Manatee, she said, “Mind if I change?”

“Go ahead.”

Tori squirmed out of her jumpsuit, sort of bucking against the seat belt, and pulled on the clothes she’d packed: rhinestone-studded jeans and a Miami Heat shirt that said WHITE HOT.

“I have to be at Bougainvillea Ravine tomorrow morning,” she said, “six-o-fucking-clock.”

“You work there too?”

“Landscaping four days a week at the Glades, then two days of construction at the Ravine.”

“Which do you prefer?”