He inhaled deeply and rested his palms against his temples, trying to fight the thoughts that were attacking him. It would be dark soon and he had to take Ian’s ashes out to sea. But spending time with Sylvia was important—even if all he achieved was closure. In his head he heard his uncle’s voice: Everybody has free will. Everybody has to make choices—choices they must live with, sometimes die with. Ian made his and you’ve made yours. He’s died with his. Now what are you going to do?

What was he going to do? He allowed his hands to free-fall to his thighs, felt the sting through the light wool fabric.

In the process a button on his shirt became undone, and Sylvia remembered the night when he held her in the back of the cab on the way from the concert … his nipples small and raisin sweet.

“I wanted to call you so badly,” she said, as her skin began to gooseflesh. “So many times … but I was afraid of you. In some ways I still am. You’re too easy to love. You changed my life, Fire. I see myself differently because of you. You helped me find the me that I wasn’t sure existed … I know now that my writing is more than just an advanced hobby. Writing is my destiny, and I’m ready to struggle and fight for it—because of you. There was a time when I couldn’t relate to Jamaica. I didn’t even want to relate to love. Now I do—again because of you. And with you at my side I slew a dragon that had me terrorized for most of my life. How can I not love you? Oh, Fire, I was so scared, so, so scared of you. Because I hardly knew you, and I was ready to run away with you if you asked me. And that kind of passion is frightening. I love you, sweet boy. That’s all I can say. And I hope you love me too.”

She felt the first tear when it bounced against her cheek. She’d been studying his face for signs that he understood and believed her.

She pressed herself against him and cried, while the drumming of the rastamen faded as they made their way out of town, and up the hill. Their departure signaled to Fire that it was time for him to leave. But how could he, when his darling girl was crying? Holding her, he felt her sadness passing into him. But what should he do? What did she want? What did he want? As he considered this, Sarge appeared with the urn in his hand, stopping at a respectful distance to ask with hand signals if he should wait. Fire shook his head and, using signals himself, urged him to go on, indicating that he’d meet him at the beach and wouldn’t be much longer.

“This is not America,” he told her, feeling the stares directed toward them. They were near to the spot where he and Ian had fought. Everyone would know this was the woman now. “Out here people are not accustomed to seeing this kinda thing in public.” Then he thought of how she’d cared for him when he’d gone to her house after the hellish time in the hospital with Phil.