“You can’t catch a break this week.”

“Can’t complain,” Keats said. “We need the money.” He sat on the bed while he pulled on his socks.

“How long you think it’ll take you?” Roxie said, shifting in bed.

“Won’t have a clue till I get there.”

18

IN HIS BEDROOM, Ryan wasn’t tired yet—his mind was spinning with new information from the documentary. He got out the books he’d brought along and did some reading, took some notes. He tried to remember the name of the little blue flowers from the documentary; he wanted to look them up in the library when he got home. His back was sore, so he got out of bed to do a few stretches, and this was when his eyes fell on the dead crab.

The solution in the glass hadn’t provided any sort of information on the cause of its death, and Ryan had forgotten about the crab on the dresser for a day or two, but now . . . well, surely he had been mistaken when it first caught his attention. He moved closer to the glass so that he could peer down into it. No way. It couldn’t be. He almost shrieked. His eyes hadn’t deceived him: that dead crab was not dead.

Ryan stared at the crab in disbelief. It was gently treading its back legs, drumming up a small current, swimming around the glass in a lazy circle. Ryan gazed at it, then stirred the water with his finger to make sure. What the . . . Ryan couldn’t take his eyes off the thing. There was no question the crab had been dead three days earlier when he’d brought it in. Was it possible something in that solution had somehow revived the crab? Ryan stared and paced and pulled the crab out of the glass by balancing it on a piece of cardboard, allowed it to flit across the carpet, then he scooped it up and put it back in the glass. He stared and marveled and poked and thought that surely he must be losing his mind.

When he next looked at the clock, Ryan was startled to realize it was almost three in the morning. He really needed to try and get some sleep, but with this resurrected crab business, he was nowhere near it. What could he do that would ready him for sleep? Stupidly, he had left his Playboys at home.

He remembered that he still had the soggy joint, wrapped in a Kleenex and stuffed into the small pocket of his backpack. He had almost forgotten about the joint entirely, but tonight was definitely the night for it. It was late—everyone else would certainly be fast asleep. He’d sneak out through the rec room downstairs, take a seat beneath the patio, have a peaceful outdoor smoke, then come in and hope sleep would find him.

Ryan put on a T-shirt and shorts, retrieved the joint from his backpack, and got the lighter from his suitcase. He also took his large beach towel and draped it across his shoulders. He crept along the hall, down the stairs, through the rec room. He left the sliding glass door unlocked behind him, made his way out, went underneath the patio and to the far end of it, where he could spread his towel and be out of sight of anyone who might amble to the kitchen for a snack.