Davis gets so dark so reliably in summer you think maybe you could tell time to the hour by his skin. You’ve nearly worked out the freckle-to-minute calculator in your head when he grabs your hand.

“Come on, Ken, some kids are playing soccer further down the beach!”

His palm is oven-warm, fresh-cookie-warm. It’s like the sun is baked into him.

You think you might puke.

Put me in the garbage for I am trash.