Cooper says, “I wonder how life would have been different if I’d just ignored Krystel when she called. What if I stayed and went to the Chicken Box like I was supposed to? Maybe she would have called off the wedding, and maybe without making that first mistake, I could have avoided the others as well.” Coop leans in toward the candlelight; his face, now weathered with age and experience, glows a pinkish-orange. “If I’d stayed on the island on this night thirty years ago, so much would have been different.”

Jake nods slowly. He can’t bear to imagine things unfolding any differently than they had. “It’s probably safe to assume things worked out the way they were supposed to.”

“Amen,” Fray says.

“Well, I’m not sure about you guys,” Coop says, standing up and tossing his napkin on his plate, “but I’m not missing out on the Chicken Box tonight.”

The Chicken Box looks exactly the same: the concrete floor is sticky with beer and there’s a crush of people at the bar. The only difference between now and the first time Jake set foot in the place in 1993 is that now, every single person is holding a cell phone. The band is on stage singing “Just the Two of Us,” by Grover Washington, Jr., a song so old it’s new again, apparently, and up front there’s a group of people dancing and taking videos of themselves dancing.

Leland and Fray opted to stay home, so it’s just Jake and Coop on this nostalgic adventure. They’re by far the oldest people here. They are gray-haired geezers, and Jake trains himself to keep his eyes off the scantily clad girls his daughter’s age.

“I’m going up front to dance,” Coop says.

“Have fun,” Jake says. “I’ll be at the bar.” He chooses the less populated side, over by the pool tables, where there’s a bit of breathing room. It takes so long for the bartender to notice him that when she finally does, Jake orders four Coronas, two for him and two for Coop. Cooper, however, is nowhere to be seen and Jake doesn’t want to try moving four beers through this crowd, so he stays put and starts drinking.

A female voice says, “I’ll give you twenty bucks for one of those.”

Jake turns. There’s a woman in a white T-shirt and cut-off jean shorts with a long blond braid standing next to him. She’s in her forties somewhere, maybe even her late forties, though he’d be too afraid to hazard a guess.

“Have one,” he says. “Please, my treat.”

“You’re my hero,” she says. She takes one of the cold bottles and rolls it across her forehead. “It’s my girlfriend’s birthday and she dragged me here. It’s fun to dance but it’s hard to not feel completely geriatric.”