Then Poncho and Moose moved to the other side of the boat, Dad motioned for me to come to him, and Jabber stayed where he was, close to the stern of the boat.

“Hup-ta,” Dad grunted the nonsensical words they always said before taking a shot. All the men lifted their bottles, grunted “Hup-ta,” then poured and shook them all over the inside of the boat.

I did the same with mine.

They tossed their bottles in with Snake. I followed suit and did it knowing that either Abel arranged all this, understanding the kind of closure Dad and the boys would need, or he’d found out what they needed and made certain they had it.

And I loved the fact that, this time, my man gave my father, his friends, and, most especially, Snake, what they needed.

Moose went back to Jabber and wheeled him a few feet up the beach. After Dad jerked his head that I should go to Jabber, I did. And I stood next to Jabber as Dad, Moose, and Poncho bent to the boat and gave it a mighty heave, shoving it into the waves, going into them thigh-deep, pushing Snake to sea, the sun setting on the horizon.

I gulped back a sob as more wet hit my cheeks, and Jabber’s hand came out and curled around mine.

Dad, Moose, and Poncho stood in the waves, watching the boat drift to sea before they turned and made their way out of the surf to Jabber and me.

Dad slid an arm around my shoulders and got close. I kept hold of Jabber’s hand. We all stood and watched as Snake rode the waves, one last ride—not a wild one, a peaceful one.

As it should be.

Then I heard zinging and four flaming arrows arced through the violet of the overhead sky, falling and hitting the boat.

It burst into flames.

I couldn’t hold back my sob. Jabber’s hand tightened in mine as Dad lifted his hand and turned his body so he could tuck my cheek to his chest.

I didn’t tear my eyes from the boat as it burned.

After some time, the silence that had been pierced only by the sound of the distant flames and the soft lapping of water against rock was interrupted with guitar strings.

I turned my head, Dad turned his body, and we saw that Abel had his guitar on a thigh that was up, his boot and ass balanced on a rock, his other leg straight. He was playing.

And then he was singing.

And that was when the tears poured out of me.

Because he was singing (and I didn’t know he could sing) and doing it beautifully.

But mostly because he was singing Cat Stevens’s “The Wind.”