About midway down Duval, a “Welcome, Bike Boy” banner was stretched across the street, fastened to the upper balconies of two facing restaurants. Some Bike Boy. He didn’t even know where his bike was.

Everywhere he looked, tourists were ducking in and out of shops, restaurants, and bars, with bikers weaving through the parade of slow-moving cars coming down the street. LeBlanc had prepared him for what he called “the Duval crawl.” Ducking into a shop with tropical-colored shirts and panama hats in the window, Peyton felt a blast of air from an enormous fan near the front door. He slid his aviators on top of his head and was letting his eyes adjust to the dim indoor light when he heard a female voice say, “Well, now you’ve gone and done it.”

He looked up to see a tall, thin girl with a dark tan and short blonde hair standing with her arms crossed, openly sizing him up. She looked about Gina’s age.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean those sunglasses were the only thing that made you look halfway conch, and now you went and took ’em off.”

“What’s that mean—conch?”

“It means you’re a local and know what’s what, unlike the busloads o’ clueless tourists that show up every day.”

“I look like a tourist?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I reckon you’re plannin’ on sellin’ me something to correct my situation?”

“You better hope so.”

“I might oughta tell you I’m not exactly a tycoon. And I’ve gotta get back to Georgia on what money I’ve got.”

The girl’s mouth flew open. “Are you that Bike Boy?”

“Yes, I’m the Bike Boy. Sure hope that don’t end up on my tombstone.”

They both laughed.

“Peyton Cabot,” he said, offering his hand.

“Millie Whitehead,” she said as she shook it.

“Everybody around here named Whitehead? You’re the second person I’ve met with that name.”

“There’s enough of us.” Millie shrugged. “Now back to those clothes. You’re gonna die of a heat stroke in a heavy cotton T-shirt. It’s too thick to breathe. Here, try this on.” She pulled down a feather-light aqua shirt with a collar, short sleeves, and buttons down the front. “This one’s cool as a cucumber and looks good on guys with dark coloring. You need some lightweight Bermudas and low-top sneaks. Skip the hats—they’re for old men. And for heaven’s sake, wear the shades.” Millie had gathered merchandise as she talked. “Go back there and try all this on, then come out and let me have a look.”

“How much is all this gonna set me back?”

“Try it on first and then we’ll talk.”

Peyton followed orders and looked at himself in the mirror. He already felt cooler in the lightweight clothes. And he thought he looked older, but maybe that was just wishful thinking.

“Hurry up already!” Millie shouted. “Sheesh, my grandma can get dressed faster than you!”

Peyton came out and showed her his outfit.

Millie nodded her approval. “Nice. You’re lucky I know what I’m doin’. You need to buy every bit o’ that.”