Colin was waiting for me as I carried the last two umbrellas back to the stand.

“Hey,” he said, lifting his chin. “Tough guy. I need to talk to you.”

I stepped around him and laid the two umbrellas on the pile of others inside the small box shed. I pulled the cable across them and snapped the lock into place. I closed the door on the shed and locked that. I picked up my backpack and started up the dunes toward the lot.

“Are you fucking deaf?” Colin growled from behind me.

I said nothing.

“I said I need to talk to you.”

I stepped off the sand and onto the planked wooden walkway.

“You need to mind your own fucking business, tough guy.”

I nodded at a couple heading the opposite direction on the walkway. I passed the shower and descended the stairs to the parking lot.

Colin scurried around and set himself directly in front of me. “Hey. Stop walking, asshole.”

I took a step to my right and he slid in front of me, blocking my path.

I exhaled and stared at him.

“You need to mind your own business,” he repeated. His chest was puffed out again like it had been earlier. His arms were at his sides, exaggerating the distance they needed from his body to show off his muscles.

“You should move,” I said. “Now.”

An evil slit creased his mouth. “Oh, good. You do talk.”

I didn’t say anything.

“You see that girl or that kid again,” he said. “Stay away. Got it?”

I didn’t say anything.

“I said do you got it?” he snarled again and poked his finger in my chest.

I grabbed his finger and bent it straight back. He swung at me with his free arm but I already had my arm up to block it. I stepped forward with my right leg and swept it quickly back into him. He went straight down to the pavement on his back and I dropped hard onto him, my knee smashing into his chest.

His sunglasses were gone and his eyes bulged. He opened his mouth but nothing came out of it, not even when his finger snapped and went limp. I loosened my grip and  tears formed in the corners of his eyes but he still didn’t make a sound. I rose off him and then jammed my knee into his sternum again. He gasped, for air or because of the pain, I didn’t know.

I stared at him, months of rage bubbling in my system, begging to be released. The hair on my arms stood at attention and the heat on my skin had nothing to do with the air temperature.

Colin’s eyes squeezed shut in agony, his mouth open, eager for oxygen to find its way into his empty, compressed lungs.

I stood.

He coughed and wheezed as he whimpered over his finger. He rolled onto his side, hugging the broken finger to his chest, his eyes still closed.

I adjusted the backpack on my shoulders and scanned the parking lot. We were alone in the dimming sun and suffocating heat. I took a deep breath, trying to release the anger inside me. I felt nothing—no remorse, no sorrow, no guilt—for what I’d done to him. I knew that wasn’t a good thing, that it could take over in a fraction of a second and I’d end up doing more than just hurting him. Just like I’d done with Keene.

I tugged on the straps of the backpack and looked down at him. He was curled up in the fetal position. He’d need a cast and he’d be sore, but he’d be alright. Well and dumb enough to bother me again, most likely.

I walked away from him, leaving him there on the pavement, and hoped he would prove me wrong.

FIVE

I crossed the sand-covered street into the neighborhoods, across from the condos and hotels. Fort Walton Beach was a narrow strip of land sandwiched between the Gulf of Mexico to the south and a curving, twisting bay to the north. The neighborhoods were a combination of low-slung bungalows and newer homes that had been built on lots where bungalows had been torn down. Most of the front yards consisted of sand and rock, almost like a desert, but the newer homes—the ones with money—paid a pretty penny for irrigated lawns.

The residents were a mish-mash, just like the homes themselves—some had been there forever, some showed up just for the cooler months. Working class locals co-mingled with the nouveau riche.

I walked several blocks in until I was one street off the bay. I stopped at the last house on the cul-de-sac, a two-story structure in various stages of renovation. The driveway was a dirt path, staked for the concrete that Ike said was being poured the next day. The yard was dead weeds and cracked soil. Trenching it for sprinklers was going to be a chore.

Ike was the contractor on the house, a jack of all trades. I helped out around the property and supervised the subs when he wasn’t around in exchange for a place to stay. The partially-converted garage space I was living in would eventually become half of a bedroom in the massive remodel.

I walked around the dug-up drive toward the side of the house, fished for the key in my backpack and opened the side door to the garage.

The stale, pent-up heat slammed into me like an explosion. I left the door open in a feeble attempt to filter some of it out. The floor was concrete, a dirty, threadbare area rug hiding oil stains and grease marks. An empty workbench ran the length of one wall, a twin-sized cot pushed up against another. The small stash of clothing I’d accumulated was stacked neatly next to it. A small fridge and microwave stood next to the garage door, the opener having been disengaged. Stacks of boxes rested against the opposite wall, along with a small assortment of power tools. A shower and toilet were in the hallway that connected the garage to the house. The work sink was new and clean and I used it to wash the sand and beach from my face.

It wasn’t my home. It was shelter.

I didn’t have a home any longer, nor did I want one. I wasn’t even sure I needed one. I wasn’t sure how long I’d be in Fort Walton. I knew that at any moment, I could be gone. By my choice or someone else’s.

And I wasn’t sure I cared.

The cool water stung my skin as the grit and sweat fell away into the basin. I toweled off and walked back outside.

I zig-zagged through the bushes and various piles of dirt, toward the back of the property. The lot backed to the bay and the water was deserted in the late afternoon heat. I trudged through the dead grass to the small strip of sand that buffeted the land from the water and sat down.

“I miss you,” I said to Liz, staring out at the water.

I’d been doing this every day since I’d arrived in Fort Walton. Pretty much every day since she’d been killed. There was a vacancy in my life that didn’t feel like it would ever leave. I knew she was gone, but it was hard to accept that.

So I talked to her.

“It’s hot,” I said out loud, picking at the brown grass. “Not like San Diego. You wouldn’t like it.”

Liz hated the oppressive heat. Claimed she couldn’t live anywhere other than San Diego. Her hair wouldn’t accept it.

“I got in a fight today.” I watched the water shimmer. “I’m sorry.”

A flock of birds flew overhead and I glanced up, squinting into the sun.

“If you were here, I wouldn’t have,” I said. “I would’ve walked away.”

That was true. She would’ve touched my elbow, pulled me away, whispered in my ear. Diffused me. It was what she did. What she used to do. When she was alive.

I no longer had that.

“Haven’t heard from Carter in awhile,” I said. “I hope he’s okay.”

I knew it was good that I hadn’t heard from him. It meant there was nothing I needed to know about.

But it was also uncomfortable.

Liz and Carter had been the two constants in my life for longer than I could remember. The two pillars I could lean on.

And now there was no one.

I tossed the dead blades of grass into the air and watched them blow away, fluttering in the breeze and landing in the water, riding the ripples out into the bay.