“Bwai, you cold nuh bloodclaat,” Teego replied through a chuckle. “You really beat up de man fe dat? Dat is just words, man. Me glad say a bwai like dat get a beaten, still, cause dem man-deh support the Babylon system dat hold I down … but if you shoulda beat every man inna Jamaica dat use de word ‘coolie’ then, you would tired out yuh hand and foot. Is just a word, man.”

“If is so you feel then done the conversation,” Ian answered, glancing at Fire’s reaction. He had never heard him use the word, but he’d never heard him denounce it. Fire looked away and sucked his teeth.

When the game was over, Fire got the fish from Teego’s hut and walked down the beach to sit in the shade of a gnarled and ancient sea grape tree. Sweeping his feet across the cool, wet sand, he cleared a space in the mess of sour grapes and set down his basin. He unwrapped the fish, which were packed in dry ice and burlap, and began to clean the snappers, ripping their gills and guts with his fingers and scaling them with a wire brush.

At first he did not know that he was angry. He could feel a tightness in his face, drawn lips and narrowed eyes—but he thought that this was due to concentration. But as he worked in the spray of blood and scales, there began to appear on the edge of his mind a column of swirling thoughts. Slowly, like the advance of a horse across dry ground, the cloud produced a form, and Fire saw the outline of an old resentment: Ian had always thought that he was soft because he didn’t like to fight. There was a pettiness in the idea that annoyed him, a certain small-mindedness. When they were boys it was understandable, even tolerable, but they were in their thirties now. He’d tried to explain to Ian years ago that fighting didn’t solve many problems, and that as a means of causing pain it wasn’t very effective, for a black eye would heal in a week, and a broken arm in four, but the right words, sharpened with the right inflection, could damage someone for life.

What irked him most was that he was allowing himself to be bothered. So what if Ian portrayed him as some damsel in distress? He knew he wasn’t soft. From I-nelik he’d learned some martial arts, and from Zachy, who used to be a ranger on his mother’s farm, he’d learned to use a gun. And while researching The Rudies he’d met and befriended many gunmen and posse leaders.

Why was he so bothered? The answer came quickly—disappointment.

He’d begun to hope they’d regained the place of comfort they had lost. But as he thought some more he changed his mind. They had never really found that place. They had simply grown to love each other while they continued their search.

It was clear now as he gazed into the eyes of the gutted fish, that their search for a comfort zone in their friendship had been abandoned many years ago. Exactly when, he didn’t know … but certainly by the time he lived in Cuba. As he pondered this he asked himself, Do I love Ian less? No, I don’t, the answer came. I just love him differently … like a parent loves a young child … with few expectations. Children always break your heart.