In the safety of his bedroom, Ryan sat on the end of his bed and panted. He knew his mother went for early-morning runs at home, but hadn’t imagined she would keep up the routine here. It hadn’t even occurred to him.

The sweat at Ryan’s underarms became cold and crispy in the overly air-conditioned room. He shivered.

Of course, if Poppy had seen him, he probably could have talked his way out of the situation by claiming he was down at the beach enjoying the sunrise by himself. But it was so unlike him to be up early in the morning that Poppy might have demanded more information. She might have searched his backpack. She might have asked Rae if she had seen Ryan coming or going or knew what he was up to.

Lisa scrambled eggs and fried sausage links and toasted white bread for breakfast. Everyone filled their plates and ate on their own time. The Today show was on in the main room that connected to the kitchen. Katie Couric marveled about a pig that saved its owner by running up the street for help when the man collapsed in his yard, and Al Roker went on about the heat wave in the Southwest. A newspaper had appeared on the front porch during Poppy’s run and was now fully dismembered. Lisa brewed more coffee and prepared a second package of sausage links.

Poppy went to Ryan’s bedroom to wake him—at eight-thirty, when he was the only one yet to make an appearance. He was still sleeping, shirtless, arm flung over his face to block the sunlight.

Poppy pinched his earlobe and said, “You need to put sunscreen on the top of your ears today.”

Ryan opened one sleepy, small eye at her.

“Rise and shine,” Poppy said. “Everybody else is up and hanging out.” She ruffled his hair. Ryan had Poppy’s hair. Black and coarse, the texture of steel wool, and it seemed to radiate heat. It wasn’t worth trying to comb or keep up with hair like this after one day on the beach; just cram it under a hat or pull it into a ponytail and leave it until the end of the week, then expect to use a bottle of conditioner and rip out knots the size of mice.

Ryan swatted his mother away gently.

“What’d you do,” Poppy said, “stay up watching the sci-fi channel till two o’clock in the morning?” She looked over at his dresser, where the dead crab from yesterday was floating in bright blue liquid, in a juice glass from the kitchen. “Speaking of which, what’d you find out about your crab fungus?” she said. “Cure for cancer?”

Ryan chuckled and sat up in bed. He rubbed a hand over his bare chest, which was already deeply tanned from one day in the sun. He had more hair than Poppy remembered.

She nodded toward the crab and said, “Please throw that thing away before it starts to stink, ya weirdo.”