A fight on Free Street, a kitchen knife on the ground but nobody stabbed. Two guys who ran from a convenience store on Munjoy Hill, picked up as they climbed a fire escape with the stolen thirty-pack of Bud. A three-year-old wandering down Congress, mom all apologies when they located her, said she fell asleep watching Comedy Central. “The kid musta got away. Oh, my God. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Brandon said she was welcome. Next time they’d call Human Services, so she’d better start watching her son a little more closely, unless she wanted the social worker knocking on her door. Parenting, he said, is a full-time job.

The mom looked hurt and flounced away. Kat said, “That’s better.”

It was almost 1:30 a.m. when Brandon pulled into the marina lot, shut off the motor. It ticked. Brandon reached for the door handle. There was a footstep to his left.

Brandon turned, his hand to his gun.

“Don’t shoot,” Winston said, flashing his big grin. “I’m just the delivery boy.” He was by the driver’s door, a white takeout tray in one hand, a plastic cup in the other.

“Sorry,” Brandon said. “Didn’t see you coming.”

“That’s because the night and me, we’re both very dark.”

Another grin, Brandon opening the door, sliding out. Winston put the cup on the roof of the truck, held out his hand. Brandon clasped it, squeezed.

“Good to see you. They got you on deliveries now?”

“Oh, no, we just closed up. Lily, she tells me you having a bad day, my friend. So I’m thinking you need a good meal and a drink. Cheer you right up.”

He held out the tray and Brandon took it.

“Some curried lamb, macaroni pie,” Winston said. “Bajan comfort food.”

“Thanks. That’s nice of you.”

“Oh, and that’s not the nicest part.” He reached for the cup, covered with a lid. “This is the nicest part. A nice rum punch, my secret recipe, with the Foursquare rum. Everybody knows the Mount Gay. It’s very good, but the Foursquare—that to me is Barbados rum.”

Brandon took the cup, ice rattling inside. “You didn’t bring two?”

“Oh, gotta be up early, time to get home. Next time you have a day off, I’ll bring the bottle. To thank you.”

“For what?”

“For the explanation. The guy on the ship who musta looked like me. Without that, none of it made sense, you know? Why me? I mean, I run a little restaurant. What’s that got to do with these posse guys?”

“It could be the answer,” Brandon said. “Just a weird coincidence.”

“Dodged the bullet, man,” Winston said.

“You’re very lucky.”

“I got a good woman, I’ll tell you that. I’m lucky to have her.”

“Yes,” Brandon said. “And that you had a gun. And that she knew how to shoot.”

“Oh, yes,” Winston said, smiling. “You don’t want to miss, not with these bad boys.”

He patted Brandon’s arm.

“Hey, but this is work for you. You go eat, have your drink. We’ll sit another time and solve all our problems,” Winston said.

“It’s a deal.”

“Things will work out. Mia, she loves you, man. I mean, you can tell.”

“Not lately.”

“Oh, women, they gotta process things, you know?” Winston said. “She’ll be back.”

“If you say so.”

“Been there, done that, my friend. I know a good lady when I see one. Learn that the hard way. Come to this country, get settled in. Bring my lady friend up from the island. Man, I thought it was true love, you know. Gonna have babies, get old and gray together.”

“Didn’t work out?”

“Oh, Regina, she’s a beautiful woman. Oh, yeah. She’s here with me for three months. We’re in Atlanta. Then she trades up. A real estate man. Millionaire. Many millions. Regina, she kicked me to the curb.”

He grinned.

“Hey, I don’t blame her. We all trying to get ahead. Last time I see her she’s getting out of a new Lexus, a convertible. Gorgeous black woman in this fancy car. People turn and look. Who’s that? Some supermodel? They don’t know it’s just Regina from Bridgetown, little two-room house with her brothers and sisters, Papa works on a golf course, keeping it green and smooth for the tourists. Now his little girl, she’s uptown, baby. Hey, all the power to her.”

Brandon smiled. “I don’t think Mia’s moving up. I think she’s just moving out.”

“Well, you don’t know. Absence, it makes the heart grow fonder. Sometimes people just need a little break.”

“You and Lily?”

“Hey, we got a good thing going. But that girl, she needs her space—you know what I’m saying?”

“Mia says I’m not around enough. And when I am—”

“Oh, time, it’s the great healer. You guys, you’ll work it out.”

Brandon didn’t answer. Winston leaned forward and they clasped hands again.

“You take care now, man. Tomorrow, it’s always another day, right?”

Brandon nodded. Winston walked back to his Mercedes, parked in the darkness at the back of the lot. He must have been sitting there waiting for me to pull in, Brandon thought. It gave him a tingle of nervousness, that anyone could wait for him in this lot, nobody around at 2 a.m. A shot in the dark.

He balanced the cup on top of the box, carried his bag in the other hand. The gate hadn’t closed and he was thankful for a second, pulling it open, no need to put his stuff down to punch in the code. He pulled the gate hard behind him, and it rattled, didn’t latch. He tried again.

“Damn thing,” Brandon muttered, added it to his list for the morning.

He crossed the yard, a cloud of bugs fluttering around the light on top of the main shed. A rat scurried under a rotting skiff, reminding Brandon it was time to put out more poison. His footsteps were muffled on the gravel and then he was on the ramp, walking quietly down. There were lights showing here and there on the boats, and he didn’t want to wake the live-aboards, anyone who had decided to stay over. The float creaked, rattling softly. When he came to Bay Witch, he put the food on the transom and stepped aboard. He slid the door open, carried the food into the salon, put it down on the table. Then he went below, got out of his gear, kicked off his boots, peeled out of his uniform. He put on shorts and a T-shirt, found his flip-flops in the locker, and went back up to collect the food.

Nice of them. Maybe he was wrong, always thinking the worst.

Grabbing a fork from the galley, he went out the sliding door, circled along the rail and up to the foredeck. There were two chairs there, only one needed now, and he pulled one to him, facing the water. Brandon sat.

Fog was draped over the harbor, blurring the lights of the city skyline. The red strobes on the towers flashed like fireflies. A truck rattled across the bridge. A gull cried in the darkness.

Brandon opened the box and the aroma billowed out. Curry and onion. He took a bite of the macaroni pie and it was good and rich. He tried the curry and the spices were hot, a slow burn. Brandon reached for the rum punch, popped the lid off the cup and sipped.

Rum. He tasted lime, too, and sugar. Maybe nutmeg? He sipped again. Turned to the meal, ate it mechanically. If Mia had been there, they’d have talked about it, the spices, the curry. It was Mia who’d told him there were hundreds of different curries, that chefs blended them. Interesting, but mostly he enjoyed listening to her, the sound of her voice, her expressions. For all the years he’d lived alone—alone on the boat, alone growing up, with Nessa passed out in her chair—this new “alone” was different. Mia had filled a void in his life that he hadn’t admitted existed. And with her gone, the hole in his life seemed bigger. It made him ache all over. It pressed down on him like a crushing weight.

He drank more of the punch, felt like it was growing on him. He went over the events of the day: a sad story with a bad ending. He felt emotionally drained. Suddenly exhausted.

Brandon got to his feet. Carried the tray and cup along the side deck. Halfway to the stern, he lost his balance in the dark and had to grab for the rail. The half-empty cup slid, hit the deck and rolled under the rail, into the water. “Damn,” Brandon said, easing his way along, jumping down to the stern deck, staggering slightly.

The rum. He felt it. He wasn’t much of a drinker, another thing that kept him from fitting in with Mia’s crowd. For him two beers was plenty. Too many years spent watching Nessa drink herself into a stupor.

He slid the hatch shut behind him, left the tray by the galley sink, stepped down into the berth. Kicking off his flip-flops, Brandon fell to the mattress, took a deep breath, and felt sleep sweep over him like he was drowning.

Brandon slept as fog settled over the harbor. Someone coughed on one of the boats. A car horn sounded on the Portland side, the sound drifting over the water. Gulls cried and squawked on their roost on the shed roof. A bilge pump kicked in, followed by the gurgle of running water. A lobster boat got under way at one of the Portland piers and chugged out into the channel, running lights quickly fading into the haze. Its wake rolled silently across the harbor and swept under the floats. Fenders creaked. Hardware rattled.

Outside the fence, there were slow footsteps. Then a pause. A barely audible squeak as the gate swung open.