There was a bonfire on the beach, and near it, three kids, two male (one black, one white) and one female (white). The boys were reenacting something—a scene from a movie or a video game, something maybe with swords, but also kung fu. The black kid wore a long coat that flapped around his legs. The boys moved in slow motion through an intricate set of maneuvers with much stopping, restarting, and arguing, while the girl watched them both, and Rima watched all three from her bedroom window above. The sea was an indigo blue. Rima was becoming a connoisseur of Pacific colors—a pale, translucent blue near the shore at dawn, but a silvered blue farther out, and the color of sunrise reflected on the sheen of the sand; green waves on a sunny afternoon, though purple in the shade of the dredge, throwing white water into the air; indigo after the sun set and then black, but with lights playing over the surf in small, unexpected reds, greens, and yellows. There was a great deal to see, even at night. Rima agreed to go, regretted agreeing, tried to renege, saying that she was still on Ohio time and couldn’t make a late night of it (which was even true but caused a fuss, so that she regretted reneging), agreed again to go, though somewhat more resentfully. She would rather have stayed in, read some more of Maxwell’s letters, a few pages of Ice City, sat and looked out the window, which someone should be doing, because there was always a chance the woman from the beach would reappear. Perhaps she’d be good enough to wear the same green sweater, so that Rima could recognize her. What Addison didn’t know was that Rima and Scorch were feeling awkward with each other. Rima had done an online search of obese dachshunds, with such distressing results—crippled legs, broken backs—that she’d forced herself to speak to Scorch about the poached-egg breakfast. Scorch had agreed instantly that of course she was in the wrong, of course it had to stop, and she was so very sorry and would never do it again and was really, really sorry, and would Rima please consider not telling Addison, which Rima had never planned to do, so on the surface everything was fine, only clearly Scorch was still uncomfortable, Rima was still uncomfortable, and the dogs were in shock. They hadn’t yet figured out that Rima was to blame, but surely that was simply a matter of time. “Until the cat walks in,” the vocalist sang, or maybe, “Only the fat wax on.” Followed by, “You love you love you love you.” Scorch was talking to Martin, fast, the way she usually talked, but with an excess of enunciation clearly aimed at Cody. “So he’s taking this class in primate behavior,” she said, “and suddenly we’re all laid bare, you know, everything we do, he knows what it means. What it really means, not what we think we’re doing, not what we mean to do, god no, it’s all status and display or alliance or intimidation or accommodation. And I’m sorry, but it’s fucking annoying, is what it is. So tonight, I’m getting dressed, and I ask him, Am I a high-status female? He’s been going on about high-status females, so I ask, Am I one of those? Of course, it’s not really, Am I a high-status female? so much as, Do you, my so-called boyfriend, do you see me as a high-status female?” The singer was getting hoarse, but in a good way. “Something something something,” she sang, all raw emotion, all open wound. “Something, something.” Rima’s head was light, and her ears hurt from the loud music. Her throat hurt from all the shouting after talking to almost no one for weeks, or else she was catching Scorch’s cold. The night continued in disconnected bursts. Apparently Cody had gone outside to get some air, though Rima hadn’t noticed he was gone, and apparently someone he didn’t know, someone who hadn’t said a word, had shoved him and then taken a swing as he was going down. He hadn’t been hit hard, but there’d been a fist with a ring on one finger. Cody’s chin was bleeding just slightly. Scorch wiped it with a napkin and disinfected it with vodka and Red Bull.