About four o’clock in the afternoon, Peyton arrived at a place he had seen circled on his dad’s map—Cubano’s Fish Camp in St. Lucie, Florida.

The camp sat on the east bank of the Indian River, with a spit of land protecting it from the Atlantic. Cubano’s consisted of a marina with docks and four or five small cottages made of heart pine, resting on coquina pillars to lift them above the floods. There were stacks of aluminum boats and kayaks for rent, a two-story house where the owners likely lived, and a waterside café with a porch facing the river.

It was too early for supper under normal circumstances, but Peyton was hot, tired, and hungry. He rode to the café, which sat higher than the other buildings, parked his bike behind a tall flight of wide steps leading to the entrance, and chained it.

The café was dark and cool inside, its walls, floor, and ceiling made of unpainted cypress. Shutter-flanked windows, each one about six feet tall and all of them open, rimmed the café, which had a bar in the center, booths lining the outer walls, and tables and chairs sprinkled in between. Ceiling fans were spinning above, and more large fans were scattered around the place.

“Sit where you like,” called a girl with skin the color of caramel and a long braid of black hair hanging down her back. She was drying glasses behind the bar but stopped when she saw Peyton, then brought a menu and a glass of ice water to the booth he chose overlooking the back porch and the river beyond. She looked a few years older than him. “You want anything besides water to drink—a beer or a Coke maybe?” Her accent was Spanish, like the girl who’d sold empanadas at the bakery in St. Augustine.

“A Coke would be great—thank you,” Peyton said. “Y’all make a good cheeseburger?”

She glanced around before she answered. “No. The beef is one day from bad and the cheese is not fresh. The cook does the best he can, but there is only so much he can manage with the poor quality.”

“’Preciate the tip,” Peyton said. “What do you recommend?”

“The fish jumps out of the river and into the skillet, so it cannot help but taste good. Get the grouper sandwich and some fries. You will be happy with your choice.”

“Alright then. Grouper it is.” He handed her the menu.

“The place will start to fill up soon when all the boats come in. If I get busy and forget to check on you, my name is Gina.”

“Thanks, Gina—mine’s Peyton.”

Gina stood beside his table, tapping her pen against her ticket pad as if she were making up her mind about something. Finally, she said, “Do not take this the wrong way, because I am engaged, but do you have a girl? Because my baby sister, she cannot find nobody good.”