The moon is rising over the strait. The moon is full and kind of red. Kelby says, “Pumpkin moon. Means someone will be murdered.” You say, “Does not.” She says, “Does too.” You say, “Well, there are only five of us on this whole island, so who is it going to be?” She says, “Hmm, none of us seems disposable.” You say, “Exactly.” She says, “This is so pretty.” You say, “You are.” She says, “What?” You say, “You’re pretty.” She smiles at you. Behind her, the moon illuminates a long strip of calm water. A ribbon of moonlight on the road, you think. So you say, “‘The highwayman came riding—riding—riding … up to the old inn-door.’” And she says, “I love that poem.” And you lean forward, just slightly, and then you are kissing her and the moon is still behind her but your eyes are closed and she is kissing you back and your hand is on her bare shoulder that has held on to the heat from the afternoon and your hand slides down and she is touching your leg and everything is exactly as it should be and this could go on forever and forever and “Gross!”
