He must’ve danced for a solid hour before the line of would-be partners finally dwindled and he could sit down. A guy and his trained chimpanzee were juggling together for tips. Another fellow, wearing a striped coat with tails and an orange top hat, was riding a unicycle around the square. Girls who didn’t have partners danced with each other, and a group of old men had started a game of dominoes on a café table by the street. Part of Peyton enjoyed the festive spirit of Key West, but there was always that voice in the back of his head: This can’t be real.

The party was still going strong when he said his goodbyes and slipped away. He had never liked being the center of attention and preferred to just go about his business. In that respect, he imagined, he was very much like his father. How miserable his dad must’ve been to have the whole family staring at him the day Granddaddy Cabot passed the torch and handed him the estate. How miserable he must’ve been every gathering thereafter, when Peyton’s grandfather would proudly remind everyone how grateful they should be for “Marshall’s wise stewardship.”

Wandering down a palm-shaded street, he found that he could step just a block or two off Duval and feel completely removed from its carnival-like atmosphere. Wood-frame cottages and two-story Victorians with elaborate double porches and verandas were painted white or faded shades of pink, purple, and green. Others, made of cypress, weren’t painted at all but still had the gingerbread woodwork. The houses were tucked into lush palms and banana plants, their fronds sighing in the island breeze.

Something about Key West made Peyton feel transformed, as if he were no longer the same person because he had made it to a place like no other. The island was completely removed from all things ordinary on the mainland, living a life of its own, undetected and unrepentant.

Peyton could understand why Key West would make the perfect escape, especially for somebody like his father. The island was so accepting that literally anybody could feel at home here. Nobody stared at anything—not the chickens wandering in and out of stores and restaurants or the man walking down Duval with a lime-green parrot sitting on top of his head. Any other place, a bike thief would be arrested, but in Key West, well, just give ol’ Luther a little time, and we’ll figure out what he did with your bicycle. No need to get all worked up about it.

Wandering first one street and then another, Peyton eventually followed a narrow lane that ended about a hundred feet from the water, where a cottage sat high above on tall pilings. There were no cars or other signs of life. The cottage appeared to be abandoned, but something about it took hold of Peyton.

The tall flight of steps leading up into the trees was worn but solid, taking him onto a deep porch that encircled it, framed with gingerbread bannisters. Between the water and the edge of the yard, if you could call it that, was a stand of mangroves so thick and tall that they would likely block the water view eventually, but for now they just made the house feel protected. He could hear Finn advising him: If there ain’t no other shelter, why, head for the mangroves. They’ll hold back the tide.