“We’re not even totally out of money,” he says, kneeling next to me.

And the way he says we makes me angry.

“How are you going to get home, then?” I say, maybe a little bit snotty. It’s not like future account managers can set up on the beach and manage for loose change. I’m the only one who can get us back to Binghamton.

Justin rakes his fingers through the sand and doesn’t look at me. Maybe he’s embarrassed for his situation, not just embarrassed by me. I don’t want to feel like he’s a liability. I don’t want to treat him like he is. I’m scared I’m not made for other people and I wonder if this is how my mom felt inside too. If maybe she works best wandering out in the world alone—if the way Justin feels like an anvil tied to my leg is how she felt about me.

“Go swimming,” I tell him. “I think I’ll do better on my own.”

There’s relief on his face, but he walks down to the water slowly, looking back a few times. To make sure I’m okay. Or maybe to try and figure out if I’m angry.

I play Buckets of Rain. I can always count on Dylan.

Justin dives into the waves. A big family walks by—four little kids in varying sizes and stages of undress, and a mom, dad, and teenager armored by beach chairs, firm grips on their umbrellas, like they’re about to do battle with the sea. The smallest of the children, a little girl with big red curls, wearing only a diaper, walks right over to me, fat little feet sinking in the sand. She touches my guitar while I’m playing.

“Imogene!” the mom yells.

“It’s fine,” I say, smiling. I switch to playing If You’re Happy and You Know It. Imogene squeals and claps and stamps her feet. She slips to her knees, sitting in front of me. The other kids sit next to her.

They’re like a magnet. Everyone else who uses the trail to get to the beach stops, for at least a moment, to see what’s going on. I don’t know that many kids’ songs, so I mix in ones that their parents will know. Even Maggie’s Farm sounds like a children’s song if you brighten up the chords and sing it too fast for the kids to understand the words.

Ten songs in, Justin comes back, red-shouldered, dripping, sand stuck to his ankles like sugar on a cider donut. There are at least a dozen kids seated in a semicircle around me, parents lingering to watch them. Justin stands back with the adults and gives me a wink when I make eye contact, like maybe he’s impressed.