“No. The wave is a dumb force of nature. It’s neutral. It’s lifted from a reef or a rock. It rises and falls, then it’s gone forever. A wave is a temporary shape. There’s a shoulder and a lip and a face in wave anatomy, but there’s no brain. You can measure its life in seconds or minutes. In the case of this monster wave, a lot of minutes. But no one has ridden it, because, like, how do you paddle your board into a hundred-foot wave? I figure if I can get towed in on a surf ski I might have a chance.” Sharkey accepted a bottle of beer from Anita and clinked it against Hunter’s glass of whiskey. “I’ve been looking for this wave my whole life.”

In his excitement Sharkey did not notice that Hunter had dropped his head, and when Sharkey looked closely, what he took for intense concentration was deep sleep.

“He’s had a long day,” Anita said. “Plus he’s on painkillers for his surgery. He’s hurting.”

Sharkey was abashed that he’d spoken with such enthusiasm and not been heard. He was chastened, and later, after Hunter had woken and revived himself with whiskey and a joint, Hunter asked him again what he’d been doing.

“The usual,” Sharkey said, thinking, True. Perhaps the wave really existed, but he had not found it or ridden it.

Hunter was subdued, in pain; he moved slowly, snatching at furniture, and the one evening they went out Hunter needed a wheelchair.

“You’ll be fine,” Sharkey said at the entrance to the hotel, Hunter in the wheelchair.

Hunter plucked his cigarette holder from his teeth. “There’s an answer.”

Sharkey glanced at Anita, who smiled and gave Hunter’s shoulder a maternal pat.

“There’s rehab, which is like prison. But sometimes—again like prison—it works.” He lifted his cigarette holder to his mouth and puffed, as though fortifying himself. “There’s moving here to Hawaii—nice weather—and you and me, we can teach a course at the university.”

“Me a teacher,” Sharkey said. “What subject?”

“Writing is surfing, surfing is writing,” Hunter said,

“That might work. As long as I don’t have to read anything.”

Chewing his cigarette holder, Hunter said, “And the subversion of young minds.”

“You guys!” Anita said, and hurried to the curb, where a limousine was drawing up.

Hunter leaned closer to Sharkey, speaking in his growl. “And there’s the nuclear option.” He was still murmuring to Sharkey but staring at Anita in the distance, who was talking to the limo driver. “Lead poisoning. Death spiral. Bleed out. Die off.”

“No, man,” Sharkey said.

Hunter made a pistol of his hand, pointed the finger of the barrel into his mouth, and fired, his hand jerking back. He didn’t smile. He trembled. He weighed the pistol-shaped hand and said, as though explaining, “Speed shakes. Chemical sweat.”