I grab a free tourist newspaper from a plastic stand by the register. We shoo seagulls off the only empty table. Justin eats his first hot dog in two bites and is on to the second before I even start mine. I thumb through the paper to the “Happenings!” page and check the music listings while I eat. Ollie’s—the bar where I play when I’m here—has shows listed for the rest of the week. A cover band, some girl I’ve never heard of, a reggae band, and this guy who plays Beatles covers on the ukulele. I saw the ukulele guy play the last time I was here. He’s awful. But he’s booked. If they didn’t have anyone, I’m sure I could play. They’re always nice to me. But there’s no point in asking now. I wouldn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable and ruin a chance in the future.

“Was your hot dog bad?” Justin says when he finishes his third. He crumples his paper plate and tosses it into the garbage can.

“It was fine,” I say, forcing a smile.

“You had a look on your face like—” Justin exaggerates a pout.

“Just thinking,” I say, shaking my head. “We need funds. I’m going to have to play.”

“Oh, cool,” he says, smile full of hot dog bits. He reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “I like hearing you play.” And it’s nice, the way he likes me. It is nice.

“I thought you meant like at a bar or something,” Justin says when I stop to get my guitar from the car on the way back to the beach.

“Getting a gig takes time,” I say. “The places I know here are booked. You can’t just walk in someplace and play.”

“You do at Arnie’s.”

“But that’s Arnie. I don’t have that here.”

“Is it legal?” he asks. He looks truly worried. I wonder if he’s imagining a phone call to his dad from jail.

“I’m not killing anyone.”

“I mean, do you need a permit or something?”

“Not unless someone complains.”

“But what if they do?”

“They’re not going to arrest us. At worst, someone will ask us to leave.”

He looks at me like I’m suggesting we knock off a liquor store or throw water balloons at babies.

“It’s fine,” I say. “We don’t have other options.”

I claim a patch of sand near the path everyone takes to get from the parking lot to the beach, sit cross-legged with my guitar, and throw a few crumpled ones in my open case so people will know what to do.

Justin stands awkwardly next to me, shifting his weight from one foot to the other while I tune my guitar.

“Sit down, at least,” I say. “You’re going to make people nervous.”