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Reesie.”
    I stop abruptly and turn to him. “Why didn’t you say anything before?” I demand.
    Zach kicks a rotting mango to the other side of the road. I suddenly notice the air is rank with the smell of rotting fruit. It seems to be dropping off the trees faster than people can pick it. Zach takes off his flip-flop and examines mango chunks that have lodged in the strap. He tries to shake them off, but they’re stuck fast. Dropping down on one knee, he rubs his flip-flop against the pavement.
    “You’re scared of Reesie?” I ask, though I know the answer.
    Zach continues working away at the fruit, but he nods his head.
    “It’s okay, man,” I say. I can feel the beginning of a headache pulsing behind my eyes. I press my fingers into my forehead and massage my temples. “I’ll sort it out tomorrow.”
    He looks up at me, the streetlight skimming off his face like a halo. “You’re not angry?”
    “You kidding?” I grin, shoving down my frustration. “That girl would spook a fully armed marine on steroids.”
    Zach jumps up and throws his arms around me, his slimy sandal whacking me on the back.
    I give him a one-armed hug before shoving him back and holding him firm so I can look him in the eye. “But you tell me everything from here on in. Right, buddy?”
    “Brother from another mother!” crows Zach, holding out his hand for me to slap. He follows this with a complicated ritual of finger snapping, fist banging and more palm slapping, which he has to teach me because I didn’t grow up on a hippie commune in the sixties. I am
so
in over my head with this guy.
    We amble on down to the junction at the bottom of the hill. The pier is straight ahead, and lights from fishing boats twinkle just beyond. If you didn’t know we were surrounded by billions of cubic feet of water, harboring every monster known to man and some we haven’t even discovered yet, it would be almost pretty. Music from a nearby bar is deafening, but it doesn’t drown out the occasional hoots from drunken patrons.
    “Go for a beer?” asks Zach hopefully.
    “Sorry, dude, I’m wiped.”
    “It’s okay. See ya on the flip side.” He gives a little salute and heads into the nearest bar.
    I try not to think about how I’m no closer to finding Pat as I trudge back to the Shark Center. Instead, I think about the last time I saw her. I’d refused to see her off at the airport when she left for Utila. I wanted her to think I was angry. I should have known Pat would never leave it at that. She came down to the basement, where I was hunched over on the sofa rolling a joint, a half-finished beer on the table beside me. Normally, seeing me like that would have earned me a twenty-minute tirade on my wasted potential. But Pat was in a hurry. She tousled my hair, something she hadn’t done in a long time.
    “So, are you going to miss me, little brother?” she teased. I allowed myself a moment of satisfaction that she sounded happy, happier than she’d been in weeks.
    She waited for me to reply, but I wouldn’t look at her. I couldn’t. I knew she’d see in my face how much I wanted her to stay. I carefully tucked in a few stray leaves that were trailing out one side of the joint, licked the paper and twisted theends into maybe the tidiest reefer I’d ever rolled. Taking out my lighter, I lit up, pulling the first hit into my lungs so slowly, I could feel every sensation as it whispered through my body. Only when the sound of her receding footsteps disappeared did I sneak a glance. Her back was rigid, her steps brisk as she walked toward the stairs. She hesitated for a moment, maybe waiting for me to call out to her. But I kept silent, and she didn’t look back as she took the stairs two at a time.
    I crossed the room and stood in the spot she’d so recently vacated, listening to her and my parents moving around, carrying the last of her bags out to the car. A couple of times she passed the open doorway to the basement and I had to