“Are you sure you’re all right?” I asked Theo.

“I’m fine,” he assured me. “Hop on.”

I did, if only because I was eager to be rid of our audience. It had been a while since I’d been on a bike, and navigating the shifting crowd wasn’t exactly easy, but after a moment I found a narrow, somewhat empty stretch. I looked behind me at Theo, who was now on his own bike. “Where are we going?”

“Follow me!” he said, and then he was zooming up beside and past me, backpack now on, his sport coat flapping out behind him. I tried my best to keep up as he zigzagged along, braking sharply whenever someone stepped in front of him. Finally, after a traffic jam at the Pavilion, where some terrible-sounding band was playing—SPINNERBAIT! according to the banner they had tacked up, crookedly, behind them—we emerged onto a more empty stretch. Theo picked up speed, glancing back at me.

“Not far now,” he said. “You’re going to love this.”

We were getting closer to the pier now, with people dangling fishing poles dotting it all the way out over the water. Beyond that, there was nothing but sand, hardly conducive to riding. Just as I was about to point this out, Theo suddenly took a sharp right, onto the road that led to the unpaved campground area.

“Hey,” I called out, my voice wobbling as we bumped over a large pothole, RVs and trailers on either side of us. “I think you went the wrong way?”

“Nope. This is right. We’re almost there.”

I was, in a word, hesitant. Colby was a pretty safe place, but the pier campground was notoriously sketchy. So much so it made the small, rundown motel adjacent—which, despite lacking one, was called the Sea View—look positively decadent in comparison. Home to mostly seasonal fishermen and a rougher set of tourists, it was a known mostly as an epicenter for drunk and disorderly conduct and fighting arrests. Not a place you went on the Best Outdoor Date Ever. Or ever, if you could help it.

The road was steadily getting worse, with more holes and now the occasional beer bottle to avoid. Every once in a while we’d pass someone, usually shirtless and/or smoking, who followed us, unsmiling, with narrowed eyes. If my dad knew I was anywhere near here, he’d kill me. If I wasn’t murdered first.

“Um, Theo,” I called out, cautiously. “I think—”

“Here we are!” He jerked his bike to a stop, kicking up a cloud of dust, then jumped off. I pulled up beside him, but stayed on mine, watching from there as he gestured grandly at the small, beat-up camper in front of us. “Home sweet home. Lucky number seven.”

I looked at it, then at him. “Whose house is this?”

“Mine,” he replied, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “I mean, it’s a rental, of course. Twenty-five bucks a night, first three nights free with a month commitment. What’s not to love?”

I could think of a long list. Which would begin, most likely, with the trailer next door, which was listing noticeably to one side, had its door hanging open, and appeared to be pelted with bullet holes. Yikes. “You rented this for a month?”

“Yup.” He wheeled his bike up to the door, parking it. “Which I figure is long enough to get myself where I need to be work-wise, hang with you, and hit the Beach Bash in great fashion. Preferably in that order. Come on, check out the inside.”

He shrugged off his backpack and pulled out a keychain, from which he selected a tiny key. He fit it into the Master lock that hung from the camper’s door. It stuck at first, but eventually he got it open, although it protested with a shriek-like sound. It was only because a car was approaching, the driver apparently not planning to slow down despite the fact that I was in his path, that I finally moved to join him.

“Watch your step,” he said, extending a hand out to me as I got closer. I ducked into the narrow doorway, letting him pull me up to the camper proper. One of those kinds designed to be towed behind a truck, it was small, seemed ancient, and smelled strongly of bleach. Which had to be covering the scent of something else, although I didn’t even want to think about what that might be. Theo, apparently not noticing this, had already begun the grand tour. “Now, this is the sleeping area, down here. Cool shelves, right? And then, behind you, there’s the dining area, kitchenette, and social space.”

I could barely turn around fully to see all this, it was so small. “I can’t believe you’re going from Sand Castles to this.”

“Hey, I’m a New Yorker,” he said, hardly bothered. “Small living space is what I’m accustomed to. And I’m already getting settled in. Have a seat!”

I looked where he was pointing. There, overturned, was one of the milk crates from Gert’s. In typical Theo style, he’d draped a brightly colored cloth napkin over it. Even here, there would be pomp. I sat, simply for the head room.

“And now, we celebrate,” he said, pulling over a beat-up wooden stool plastered with fishing reel stickers and settling in. He unzipped his backpack and took out a bottle of wine, already opened and corked, as well as two clear plastic cups, a jar of cocktail olives, and a small can of salted nuts. He poured a glass for me, then one for himself, arranging the food on the backpack’s surface.

“What are we celebrating, exactly?” I asked.

He held up his cup, clearing his throat. “To freedom. And new beginnings.”

I repeated this, and we tapped glasses. Despite my dislike for red wine, I took a big gulp, quickly followed by another one. “Are you going to tell me what happened now?”