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except what Gray has pointed out, patient as a ranger. I never learned anything growing up, the leaves and feathers of life, because I was too busy running from micks. The beach house is my second chance at a little natural history. Whatever they're called, the white birds are gorgeous. Alighting here as they migrate north, a moment for me and no one else. Whatever time is left, I have had these birds.
    And then they explode in flight, flapping away in tandem as if somebody fired a gun. I reach out to them as they disappear north, wishing them well, wishing to fly in their wake, so buoyant am I. Then Brian appears at the top of the steps, coming up from the beach. Now I know why the birds fled. He is wearing a Speedo of mine, green and black stripes, and toweling dry his hair. Of course he looks extraordinary, sleek as a sea god. It's his desert island right now, no question about it. He is a man to match the vibrancy, the aliveness of the morning and the place. He turns his warrior's head to look down the coast. He hasn't seen me yet.
    It's not that I'd forgotten he was here. But none of that had started churning yet, and in my mind he was still asleep. I was staking the day for myself. I didn't think he would slip so easily out and find the secret places. I call from my perch: "The blue hump's Catalina."
    Brian turns with a grin. "Good morning! Jesus, is that water cold!"
    "It's winter."
    He strides across the grass, squinting up at me. "I didn't swim far, I'll tell you that. My nuts shriveled up like raisins. I think we have time for breakfast."
    "We've got to get you down to the Chevron station."
    Brian laughs. "I've been there already. The car's all charged. You just put on some pants and get down here."
    He stretches a shoulder muscle as he speaks, turning it in a circle, like he's warming up for a game. I see him for one more moment nearly naked in the morning sun, almost gleaming, before he ducks through the arch below me and into the house. I retreat to the bedroom, rattled, glancing at the clock—9:40. I'm exhausted by Brian's energy. A two-mile jog to Chevron, and still he wanted a swim in the ocean. Myself, I haven't been in the water once since I got here, not including my toes. Sullenly I grab my jeans, dogged again by the gap between what Brian can do and I can't.
    When I get downstairs he's dressed, tie and the whole bit. The dining room table is set for breakfast, melon and bowls of Cheerios and the muffins Gray brought last night. Brian ducks his head in from the kitchen. "Coffee or tea?"
    "Tea." I sit down quietly at my place. Something I haven't thought about in sixteen years: my brother used to put breakfast out for all of us every morning. Half a grapefruit and oatmeal, milk for us and coffee for them. He might torture me all the rest of the day, till I was black and blue and curled in a fetal crouch, but he served me breakfast fair and square. The old man would usually be hung and bleary, my mother making birdtalk to cover his silence.
    Brian appears with a pair of mugs and sets one down in front of me. "I would've made you some french toast—that's what I make for Daniel—but you didn't have any eggs."
    We eat. I am sorry now I didn't wear a shirt. Not because I'm cold but because I did it to show off my lesions. Pure spite, to get back at him for the little Olympian swim show he just put on. I can feel him looking at the nasty one on my shoulder. The casement window behind his head is open, the wet Speedo hanging from the latch and dripping into the courtyard.
    "I wrote down our address and phone number on the pad in the kitchen," says Brian, buttering his muffin. "In case—"
    "—I die. Don't worry, I'll have somebody get hold of you."
    "That's not what I meant. We should stay in touch."
    "Okay." It's not worth the ugliness to tell him that this is the end, right here. I eat my Cheerios stolidly, vowing neither to be unpleasant nor to lose my temper. It's just another half hour.
    "So what kind of