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Cole had his first fix. The bartender brought him a second without asking and Cole took well-spaced smaller sips, taking his time as the rum warmed his core and slowed his worried mind. His momentary mild panic eased to a passive bliss as the rhythm of Key West became increasingly louder.
    Almost an hour had passed. The crew from Delaney would be on Duval Street by now. The bars along the boardwalk that Cole loved so much were an afterthought for them. They wouldn’t reach the Schooner Wharf until well after midnight, as they made their way back to the side gate. Cole liked the inner harbor more than Duval Street and always tried to steer the party crowd there earlier in the night, rarely with any success. He thought Duval Street, while an experience in itself, was more a sideshow than the real Key West. And so Cole sat, content among strangers, for a few more hours as he tended to his dizzy mind.
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    The sun passed overhead and worked its way west in choreographed fashion for the sunset party at Mallory Square. Cole paced himself, managing the rum on his brain and making small talk with the passing patrons that came and went throughout the day. Feeling the first hint of late-afternoon air, Cole settled his tab and slung his sea bag over his shoulder once more. Past the boardwalk, he finally hit Duval Street. The uncontrolled chaos of Key West was bursting with energy. A cruise ship, two perhaps, were most certainly tied up as sun-burned tourists nearly stumbled over top of each other while sipping fruity drinks and making their way from bar to bar. They wore straw cowboy hats, flower-patterned bathing suits, and Hawaiian shirts. Pure joy beamed from their faces as they soaked up each warm second of a vacation they had probably been waiting on for months.
    Intermixed were the Key West regulars—misfits in normal society who had run from all over the country to call the Conch Republic home. They moved with purpose, towards their shifts as bartenders, bouncers, strippers, and entertainers. Their faces wore years of hard living, and not yet on the clock, they made no effort to hide the toll of decades under the sun with substances running through their veins. Cole slowed amidst the human traffic and ducked inside the lobby of the La Concha hotel. The front door closed behind him, the sounds dissipated, and the tidiness of its lobby was a study in contrasts. The air conditioning almost gave him a chill as it cooled the beads of sweat on his chest and back. Walking up to the desk he asked about a room for a few nights. The receptionist smiled, swiped his credit card, and sent him on his way with a plastic room key in hand. Up an elevator and down the pastel-themed hallway, he opened a door and walked into his dark room. Dropping his sea bag on the floor next to a king-sized bed, Cole opened the curtains overlooking Key West.
    The room was silent. Floors below, Duval Street was booming. The bars were blasting reggae and Jimmy Buffett and top-40 dance songs. People were drinking, screaming, yelling, and thinking to themselves that this must be heaven on earth. Farther down the road, performers were taping together their makeshift stages at Mallory Square, hoping to God that the impending audience would be generous with their tips. Bartenders were busy shuffling back and forth, filling the never-ending orders for drinks and bar food. From his room, Cole felt nothing. There was no rush, no sense of urgency to quell his thirst, no need to hurry for anything or anyone. It was far removed from Delaney, and he relished the feeling. He looked forward to sleeping for hours in that bed, with its clean linen and warm comforter. He walked over to the thermostat, cranked it down a few notches so that he would sleep well under all the blankets, and picked up his sea bag.
    Dumping it out on the bed, he took the few sets of clothes he had with him and put them away in drawers and hung the button-down shirts on hangers. He had six t-shirts from