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The Florida sun hits the back of my neck. I’ve been sitting on this damn bench for an hour. I need to go. Ten more minutes and I’m out of here. I’ve got better things to do. It’s got to be a hoax. I tap my toe and check the time again. There’s no one coming from the marina. Elbows resting on my knees, I casually turn the other direction and glance down the narrow road to the marina. A skinny man in a tropic print shirt appears from behind the bench and sits next to me. Fuck. He needs to get the hell out of here or . . .. I side eye him; he’s not skinny, more of a runner build—athletic.

“Look forward, not at me,” he hisses out of his breath.