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in her Round House gear for civilian attire, permitting her to receive drinks rather than serve them. She spots me perched at the bar and ducks under the opening at the end to belly up next to me.
    Whiplash kicks into the Doors’ “Roadhouse Blues,” and people push to the front like children looking for free candy at a parade. Haley barks an order for four Red Snappers. If mixology were a major, she probably would have breezed through her college curriculum. Her arm wraps around and pulls me close. “This isn’t even busy. Wait until the weekends. A lot of people arrive Thursday night to secure dock space and enjoy the island before it gets busy. Unless we’re working, most of us don’t come in here from Friday to Sunday. But on Sunday night, the island is ours again.”
    A green fluorescent light flashes by the front door. Cinchenters, wearing an Australian roughrider hat and twirling a glow stick on a string above his head. Baleful emerald eyes punctuate his priestly face and communicate that I could be in for a night of trouble. The bouncer at the door makes a move for him but, recognizing Cinch, returns instead to talk to the female who has been occupying his attention.
    “Christ,” Haley says to the bartender. “You better make it five.” She turns to me. “Only Cinch can get away with that shit. It’s good to be him.”
    Cinch doesn’t question the contents of the shot Haley gives him. He just says, “God bless you,” and throws it back like communion.
    When Whiplash takes a pause for the cause, Haley suggests we go to the Boat House between sets. Our tribe has grown to eleven. Everyone seems to know one another, but then again, it doesn’t matter. Etiquette is not really a priority. Tonight is about feeling good; the more, the merrier.
    The walk to the Boat House is a tempering break and a sobering lift. The air is both warm and cool, alternating as it blows. The beacon of the monument flashes in the near distance. I turn my face to the stars.
    Cinch says, “Over by the monument, I guarantee you’ll see a shooting star every night. It’s remarkable how much you can see when you’re in the dark in the middle of nowhere.”
    Nightlife has replaced the diners at the Boat House. On the right a traveling piano bar has been set up where patrons gather while the performer plays. The musician behind the keys acknowledges our arrival with “Copacabana.” He’s in his late forties and resembles Ronnie Milsap, but he wails with the animation of Meatloaf.
    While most of our party sits at the piano, Cinch and I go to the bar. He says, “We need to make a pit stop when we—hey, Astrid!” Cinch rises to greet the hot waitress I met earlier. “Comemeet the newest member of the Round House staff.” He turns to me. “Right? Come on. You know you want to.”
    Although I still haven’t officially accepted the job offer, I don’t refute him. I’m too captivated. Astrid has also changed costumes. Her dangling golden hair is now held back by barrettes that match her cotton sundress, which hangs from her shoulders, cups her breasts, and falls straight to the ground, stopping just past her thighs. I love sundresses. If I were a woman, I would wear nothing else—no underwear and no bra—just the sundress, a piece of free-flowing cotton between the rest of the world and me.
    As she approaches, the muscles in her thighs tighten and flex with each step. Her shoes are open-toed sandals made of hemp that strap only around her ankle and around the balls of her feet. The cork sole is four inches thick by the heel and slopes downward to an inch in the front, causing her to lean forward, almost shuffling, when she walks. She says, “You guys seem to be headed for trouble.”
    “Why?” I ask. “Are you looking for some?”
    “It usually finds me.” She punctuates the comment with a coy tilt of her head.
    Cinch says, “Don’t worry, we’ll protect you.”
    “Who’ll save me from you two?” she asks.
    I return