He passed another woman on the footpath. She wore skin-tight blue spandex and a white visor and was pushing a freckled baby in a stroller that looked as complex as a rocket ship. Massive mesh extension on the sun visor. Five wheels, built for speed. The woman nervously steered the baby in a far angle when John approached, so he didn’t bother. Jesus Christ, the way these people looked at him, it was like there was a dead body strapped to the roof of the golf cart. Was it the thrift store polo? The sneakers? The haircut? Coming into this trip, John knew he would feel different from the moneyed vacationers here, but he hadn’t counted on them feeling so different toward him. He supposed he had expected that they might make some effort to let him think he was blending in. That they might at least have the courtesy to pretend.

Eventually, John drove the cart back to the beach house, preparing to explain the situation to Lisa: why the two of them had become separated, and the territory he had already covered in attempting to locate Scott.

5

KEATS WAS AT home when the storm hit. His wife, Roxie, had taken the truck across the island to pick up coffee and paper towels. Keats felt bad that she was out when the weather struck its hardest, but he was relieved she had decided to drive to the Quik Mart instead of biking, as she often did.

He stood at the window as water beat against the glass and thunder vibrated through the walls. Beachgoers fled for cover, books in armpits, flip-flops in hand. The white sand, dimpled with footprints, went brown and flat in the rain, then charcoal and even flatter, as though the world were sinking before his eyes.

The dog was in the bathroom, the only windowless room in their tiny above-garage apartment. He whined and tittered pitifully, soft and high-pitched, tail thumping the linoleum.

A gust of wind screamed, the windows rattled. Lightning broke the sky into pieces. Keats felt wild, almost scared, like a kid. Storms blew through practically every day at this time of year, but rarely came on so sudden and severe.

Keats was startled by a noise at the door—he had expected Roxie would wait out the rain in the truck. As soon as the door opened, it was torn from Roxie’s grasp and knocked hard on its hinges against the exterior of the garage, carried by the force of the wind. Rain pelted the floor of the entrance, there was a howl of air, an invisible force that seemed intent on drawing the outside world in. It was like an angry and insane ghost had just entered the room.

Roxie grabbed the doorknob, slammed the door shut behind her with great effort, and shuddered. Her pretty face was lively and expressive, eyes large. “Good God!” she exclaimed, squeezing a handful of water from her T-shirt. She was soaked.

She kicked off her flip-flops and left them at the door, dropped the plastic grocery bag there as well. She moved to the kitchen, where she peeled off her clothing one item at a time until she was completely naked, then she dropped the bundle of sopping-wet clothing on the counter. Keats admired his wife. Roxie’s skin was deeply and evenly sun-bronzed, except for bikini triangles surrounding her nipples and pubic hair and across her bottom, where her skin seemed whiter than white.