I play for two more hours, to a revolving group of little ones. Cycling through the same songs when the crowd changes over. My fingers are blistered and my throat is dry, but there’s a growing mound of bills in my case.

Justin takes off for a while and comes back with a paper liquor store sack and three Chinese food cartons. It’s dinnertime and the crowd has thinned to two kids and a frazzled nanny, who takes the hint and ushers the kids away when she sees Justin.

“Hungry?” he asks, and puts the food down next to me.

“Very,” I say. He pulls two sets of chopsticks from his pocket. Opens cartons of egg rolls, chicken fried rice, and vanilla ice cream.

“It was a special,” he tells me. “The woman insisted.”

“I’m not complaining,” I say.

We eat the ice cream first, since it’s melting, scooping at it with our chopsticks held together tightly.

The wine has a screw top and tastes like old vinegar, but it was a sweet touch. He only had ten dollars left. I’m not going to be mad that he spent it on nonessentials. It’s nice that he wanted to help, that I’m not eating dinner alone, and I have someone to talk to about my day.

We eat slowly, watching the sun creep to the horizon. I dig my toes into the sand.

A little kid runs over, his mom chasing behind. I saw him in the crowd of kids earlier. He’s five or six, big ears and a bucket hat like Gilligan.

“Do you know that song about the dragon?” he asks me, the S in song revealing his lisp. He holds his hands up, fingers curled like dragon claws.

“Cory!” his mother yells, catching up. “Don’t bother the nice lady.” She bends to grab his arm. He pulls it away.

“But…” They exchange a look. He cups his hand to her ear and whisper-shouts, “I was asking nicely.”

Justin nods in the kid’s direction, grinning at me. It’s all adorable.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say to Cory’s mom. “I do know that song.”

I pick up my guitar and play Puff the Magic Dragon. His mom sits in the sand. He sits in her lap. Justin doesn’t even look awkward about it. I think I catch him mouthing the words to the chorus. I play two more songs for Cory, and his mom gives him ten dollars to put in my guitar case before they leave.

“Thanks, buddy,” I say to Cory. “It was fun to sing for you.”

“Yeah, dragons are good,” he says, his S failing him again. I smile and wrinkle my nose. He wrinkles his nose back at me. He’s so damn cute.