Amos Tarbell and Ben Dorset slid down the rocks and raced into the water past the two prone bodies. The sheriff yelled, “Don’t you bastards realize your buddy is drowning!”

The two sat up in the sand, blinking vaguely at the disturbance. Bo laughed to Tony, the younger, slighter figure. “Wild shit here, man.”

But the two displayed a befuddled interest when the sheriff and his deputy came ashore with the inert body of their friend. Amos Tarbell began artificial respiration. The man named Tony protested, “Hey, this guy is reaming Alex!”

The two started angrily for the sheriff, but Ben Dorset pulled his gun. “Just quiet down, and nobody’ll get hurt.” He put Bo’s hands behind his back and slipped handcuffs on.

“Hey, man, we ain’t done nothing!”

The younger one started to run, but Dorset tripped him and handcuffed him as well.

Bo complained, “How the fuck we supposed to get dressed with our hands behind our back?”

Amos Tarbell called to Dorset. “This one’s coming around. Radio the office for a boat—”

Tony whispered to Bo, “They’re fuzz, man! I can’t take another bust!” With that, while Ben Dorset was preparing his walkie-­talkie, the man darted away into the forest. His bearded friend lumbered after him.

Ben Dorset started to follow, but Tarbell stopped him. “Don’t worry about them.” Working on the near-­drowned figure, the sheriff couldn’t help smiling at the picture of two naked fellows, with their hands locked behind, trying to climb up to the ridge through the tangled thickets. He said, “We’ll pick them up later.”

There was a crash from the trees and a sharp cry. It was Tony’s voice, alarmed. “Bo! I can’t get up!”

There was no answer.

“Bo! Where the hell are you?”

The only sound was a loud hissing noise. Both the sheriff and his deputy looked toward the woods. “What the hell was that?” Dorset said.

The cry behind them became a scream. “Bo, come back!”

The scream turned to a burst of horror. “My foot! Christ, something is eating my foot!”

Ben Dorset said uneasily, “Hey, Amos, you think—”

“The rats? No. We’re too far from the dump. He’s just having a bad trip.”

The voice in the woods soared into an inhuman screech. “My cock! Holy Jesus God! It’s biting my cock!”

Ben Dorset nodded to the sheriff. “Bad trip.” He’d learned about drugs in police school. It was the fellow on the beach who needed their help—he looked like he’d swallowed the ocean.

The screeching exploded into a staccato of agony. “My eyes, Bo! I can’t see!”

The deputy got up. “I better go take a look in there, Amos.”

The sheriff shrugged. “If it’ll make you feel better.”