“I did the best I could, sir,” Peyton said to the father. “But y’all might want to let a doctor look at him.”

“I can’t swim,” the man said again.

“We don’t know how to thank you,” the mother said, clinging to her child. “If we had any money, we’d give it to you, but that’s how come we’re down here—lookin’ for work. You really think Billy here needs a doctor?”

Peyton thought it over, then went to his bike and took out fifty of the one hundred dollars Aunt Gert had hidden in the saddlebag on his bike. He sat down next to Billy and his mother and handed it to her.

She stared at the money wide-eyed, as if she had never seen anything like it before. “We can’t take your money. That’d be a handout. Wouldn’t be right.”

“Wouldn’t be right not to get your boy the help he needs if there’s a way to do it,” Peyton countered.

Again, she stared at the money he was holding out, finally reaching to take it.

“Good luck to y’all,” he said.

He pushed his bike through the cruisers on the beach and changed into dry clothes at the bathhouse. Then he had an early supper—a footlong and fries at a beachfront joint called the Sawlty Dawg. By the time he finished, the sunset was painting the sky with soft blues and corals, and a cool ocean breeze was blowing. He knew he should save his money and look up the local police chief, but he was exhausted, and the little motor court next door had a vacancy sign.

He made his way to the motel office, stepped inside, and felt the blessed chill of an air conditioner. They had been popping up all over the South since the war.

“Welcome to The Sandman!” called the woman behind the front desk. “How can I help you today?” She was probably in her sixties, tall, with reddish-brown hair, which she wore in a twist on the back of her head. Her fingernails were long and red. She had a twinkle in her eye and the kind of smile that made you think she could take the worst situation and make everything alright.

“I was hoping to get a room?” Peyton said.

“Sure, honey. How many nights?”

“Just one, I guess.”

“Okay, then. That’ll be six dollars for a garden view—that means facing the swimming pool—or ten for an ocean view. What’ll it be?”

“Better go with the cheaper one.”

“You want to pay twenty-five cents to unlock the phone in your room?”

“No, ma’am. I don’t reckon I’ll be making any calls.”

The woman handed Peyton a form to complete. He filled in all the spaces, gave it back to her, and watched as she reviewed it, wondering if he had done everything right. He had never rented a motel room before.

The woman peered at him over her reading glasses. “Now, honey, I notice right here where it says ‘tag number,’ you wrote ‘bicycle’?”