“You look intact. What did he say?”

Ruth shrugged, clacking bowls into the rack. “Didn’t notice.”

The Ranch kept a stack of lightweight beach chairs near the end of the walkway to the beach. Marianne lifted one from the top of the stack and carried it near the water’s edge and set it down, then dragged it a little north of the Ranch, in front of the mangroves that separated their property from the homes and hotels on either side. Where she was sitting, she could be from anywhere—a guest of one of the nicer hotels or even a homeowner, taking a break at the end of a long day. The tide was going out, and she concentrated on marking where each wave lapped the sand.

Just a week ago, she’d been able to come down here, alone or with Eric, every night. Now there were students scattered everywhere, their dark silhouettes facing the still-shining water.

“Beautiful,” said a voice nearby. Marianne looked to her left and saw that it belonged to the woman who’d most recently cried in her office. She had a spiral notebook in her lap, a pencil sheathed in the metal coil. Had she told Marianne her name? Marianne was bad with names; it seemed that she was always thinking of something else when people announced theirs.

“Thanks,” Marianne said, then realized it sounded like she was taking credit for God’s creation. The sun’s orange light was quickly draining over the gulf’s horizon. “I mean,” she said, “thank you for watching it with me.”

“Last night I was sure I saw the green light,” said the woman. “But now I’m not so sure. My friend Manfred said it was a myth.”

“I haven’t seen it yet, and I come here almost every day,” said Marianne. “But I don’t think it’s a myth. A lot of other people have seen it. I think it’s a scientific thing, actually.” Perhaps it was a good sign—a tolerant and open-minded sign, at least—that this woman counted Manfred Collins as a friend. Marianne had met him, a chain-smoking, bourbon-swilling serial workshopper, years ago. His great-grandfather had made so much money refining sugar, Manfred once told her, that no Collins had ever been useful to the world since.

“Good,” the woman said. “I didn’t want to think it was my imagination. It’s terrible, when people try to talk you out of something harmless, like the green light. Who would want to do that, Marianne?”

“I don’t know,” Marianne said. “I’m sorry, I’m terrible with names.”

“Janine,” the woman said. “I’m sorry I barged in on you at the end of the day, when you were trying to leave. I hate it when my students do that.”

“No, you were fine. I’m sorry, it was a long day. It must seem long to you too—I forget that.”