Hold up and let me turn off this hose,” said the woman. “And then we can visit proper.”

“I’m not visiting,” said Beverly.

“Just let me turn this off,” said the woman. She bent over and struggled with the spigot. “Well, shoot,” she said. “My hands are so messed up with this arthritis that every little thing is hard to do sometimes.”

“I’ll do it,” said Beverly. “Move out of the way.”

The woman stood up, and Beverly bent over and turned the handle on the spigot.

“There you go,” said the woman. She clapped her hands. “Easy as pie.” She smiled. Her face was creased with wrinkles, and she had on a big pair of glasses that made her eyes look huge. She stared up at Beverly. She blinked.

“Now,” said the woman. She blinked again. She looked like a baby owl. “I wonder who you belong to.”

“What?” said Beverly.

“Who are your kin?” asked the woman.

Beverly shrugged.

“You don’t have kin?”

Beverly shrugged again.

Joe Travis Joy was kin, she supposed. And there were all the cousins on her mother’s side of the family. And her uncle.

And there was her mother, of course.

Even though Beverly didn’t really feel like she was related to her mother.

And there was her father, who had been gone since she was seven years old.

She had a dog. Or she used to have a dog.

She had friends.

Well, one friend — Raymie.

Her other friend — Louisiana — had left and was in Georgia now.

It stunk, how people left.

“I don’t have any kin,” said Beverly.

She stared at the old lady. Either her hair was crooked or she was wearing a wig.

“Everybody has kin,” said the woman in a very solemn voice.

Beverly was hungry and tired. She thought that she would like to sit down.

She felt as if she had traveled a long way.

Even though Tamaray Beach wasn’t really that far from Lister.

She wished, suddenly, that she had gone farther.

“Listen to me,” said the woman. She looked up at Beverly. Her glasses glinted in the late-afternoon light. “I think you’re hungry. Now, am I right? Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” said Beverly.

She was hungry.

The world got very quiet. There was no sound except for the ocean crashing and muttering.

It would be nice if the ocean would shut up for just a few minutes.

“You didn’t tell me your name,” said the woman.

Beverly looked down and saw that she had the name tag from Mr. C’s in her hand. She held it up like it proved something.

“What’s that?” said the woman. She leaned in closer. She squinted. “Bee-verl,” she said. “Your name is Bee-verl?”

“It’s Beverly. I just got a job.”

“Over at Mr. C’s?”

“Yes.”

“Well, good for you. Although they do fry their fish half to death over there. I’m Iola. Iola Jenkins.”

“Okay,” said Beverly.

“Let me ask you something, Bee-verl.”

“It’s Beverly.”

“I know it,” said Iola. “I’m just joshing you. Now, here is what I need to know. Can you drive a car?”

“Yes,” said Beverly.

“Well, now,” said Iola. She cleared her throat. “Here is another question. Do you enjoy playing bingo?”

“Bingo?” said Beverly.

“Never mind,” said Iola. “Don’t pay me no mind. Why don’t you come on inside, and I will make you a sandwich?”

Beverly put the name tag in the pocket of her jeans. She followed Iola up a flight of crooked wooden stairs.

In a crooked little house by a crooked little sea.

“Now, you like tuna fish, don’t you?” said Iola from up ahead of her.

What was it with people and fish?

“Sure,” said Beverly.

“Good,” said Iola. “I make the best tuna melt you will ever have in your life.”

“Oh, boy,” said Beverly. “I can’t wait.”