But they had gone only a short distance when Hook heard a kind of cry behind them, an animal sound, like the yelp of a kicked dog, and as he turned to look, one of the hippies came charging around him and Liz and blocked their way, followed immediately by the other two, who were breathless and heaving from their short sprint in the sand. Like the first one, they were long-haired and bearded and dressed like eccentric tramps. But there all similarity ended. Where they were small-boned and thin, even emaciated, he looked as strong and aggressive as a two-year-old bull. And he looked crazed.

“What is this, huh!” he cried, his voice again the yelp of a dog. “Huh! What is this! You come all the way up the beach—you see us—and then you turn around? What is that, huh? You think we gonna stomp ya or rape ya or somethin’? Is that it, huh? Everyone with long hair, they Charlie Manson, is that it, huh? Is that how come you turned? Huh? Speak up! Come on! Speak up!”

Hook was already so angry he did not trust his voice. All the rage he had felt against Liz had now refocused on the hippie.

“No, that’s not it at all,” Liz tried to explain. “We’d just come so far, that’s all. It was time to go back.”

Grinning, the hippie looked at his friends. “I say this bitch lies. What you cats say?”

They were uneasy. “Aw, lay off, Arn,” one said. “Come on, let ’em go. What’s it matter anyway?”

But to Arn it mattered. “No, I wanta hear an apology first.” He looked at Hook. “Huh? What ya say, big man? Let’s have an apology, huh? Just say you sorry you shit on us, and we let you go.”

Hook stood there staring at the burly youth.

“Yes, we’re sorry!” Liz begged. “We apologize. Now please let us pass.”

The hippie was still watching Hook. “I’m waiting, big man.”

Hook had not fought another man, had not hit one, since college. But then in all the intervening years he had never before been asked to apologize for walking his own way. So now, as the hippie’s voice kept rasping at him—“What about it, big man? Huh? What about it?”—Hook found himself dropping his head slightly, as if he were about to say something, but instead he swung steeply from his side and punched the youth in the face as hard as he could.

The hippie staggered backwards and sat down in the sand, reaching for his pain. Then he fell back and rolled over onto his belly, still holding his face.

“Jesus,” one of his friends gasped, and leaned over him. “You okay, Arn? You okay?”

Arn rolled over again and Hook could see between the youth’s splayed fingers his left eye and cheek coming up like a pink balloon.

Hook took Liz by the arm and roughly propelled her forward. “Come on. We can go now.”