He followed the signs to the beach. Peyton had heard about Daytona but had never seen anything like it—sand packed so hard that you could drive on it, which everybody did. Fronting the water was a line of parked cars. Another row lined the sand closest to the beachfront hotels. Tourists simply loaded their trunks with snacks, towels, and umbrellas and played in the surf, returning to their Fords and Chevys whenever they were hungry or thirsty. Between the two rows of parked cars was a slow-moving roadway, with cruisers driving up and down the beach, checking out the sights.

Peyton found a public park with bathhouses, where he drank blissfully cold water from a fountain, downing so much of it so fast that he almost made himself sick, before refilling his flask, changing into his bathing suit, and washing his clothes in the sink. More comfortable with his bike in sight, he pushed it across the sand and parked it next to a station wagon where a family was having a picnic. After hanging his wet clothes over the seat and handlebars, he waded into the surf.

Nothing—nothing—felt better than bracing ocean water on hot, sweaty skin. Peyton let wave after wave roll over him to wash away the residue of the road—dust, salt, and sweat, all mingled into a sticky grime that coated his whole body, as if A1A wanted to leave a lasting stain on him. Relaxing in water up to his chest, he turned to face the beach.

The picnicking family looked out of place in Daytona. They were all barefoot, but the mother was wearing a dark brown dress, her little girl a navy skirt and white blouse. The boy, who looked about four, had on a dress shirt but had taken off his pants, while his dad had rolled up his trousers along with the sleeves of his shirt, and Peyton could see an undershirt peeking out where he had unbuttoned the collar. They were all very pale and clearly more at home in cooler climates. Focused on her children, the mother was pointing out seagulls and pelicans flying overhead. The father, Peyton thought, looked distracted, as if this sojourn on the beach were something to be endured, not enjoyed.

Down the beach, he heard music coming from an outdoor theater shaped like a castle. The band was playing Benny Goodman’s “Sing, Sing, Sing,” which made him miss Aunt Gert and their jitterbugging at the VFW. Strange to think about it now—while he and Aunt Gert were dancing that night, his mother was crying, grief-stricken over a loss he wasn’t yet aware of. He had danced when mourning was called for, but he couldn’t see it at the time.

Peyton tipped his head back and ran his hands through his wet hair. The ocean air was cool and refreshing, though he knew that if he were to wade out of the surf and walk just a few feet onto the sand, he’d be sweating again in no time. At least the sun was slowly dropping lower in the sky, making its way toward sunset. That would cool things off.