Mr. McNeal was his name. He squinted a little, trying to make out the features of this black boy, but he’d misplaced his glasses and anyway, it was nearly dark. Alison smiled at the clerk and said, “Thanks,” then skipped on for the door.

Nighttime at the cabin: they drank themselves stupid, laughing loud and taking pictures with Mr. Chiles’ instant camera Ricky found. (Alison pocketed a few as souvenirs.) Like hyper squirrels in a game of Catch-A-Girl-Kiss-A-Girl, they darted around the bulky wood framed sofa and chairs, tripping over the big rope rug thrown in front of the stone fireplace; it always ended with Ricky and Alison in a sweaty, breathy embrace. Sweed was resigned to watch.

When they wanted to enjoy the weed, they took the beer outside by the dark water where crickets sang and fireflies sparked against blackness. They sat under the big tree in a tight triangle. Sweed was rolling another joint when Alison said, “Wait, I got something.” Her sly eyes moved to Ricky, her face, her skin white as moon milk under the night sky. She unzipped the pocket of her jacket and came out with three pills. She knocked one back and took a hit of beer, then she held the other two out for Ricky and Sweed.

They looked at each other. Sweed asked her, “What is it?”

“The best trip you’ll ever take,” she said. She breathed in deep and moaned with closed eyes. Sweed dropped his gaze to her chest. He liked the pink mole. Her red mouth laughed, looking like blood against snow.

He shook his head. “I’ll pass. I’m cool.” And lit up his smoke.

“Come on, baby,” she said to Ricky with a drunken lean against his shoulder. She moved her hand with the pill up along his inner thigh. He looked at Sweed just for a second before popping the drug.

Sweed passed the joint. First to Ricky, and then to the girl. The two of them were giggling again. And then the sloppy kisses and groping started. Ricky stood up. “Come on,” he said, reaching down for the girl’s hand.

“Where we goin’?” she said.

He didn’t answer but she let him lead. Sweed watched them climb the embankment as they headed for his car. He took a step toward them when he saw Ricky swing open the back door. She crawled in first. Sweed thought of telling them no way, not in his car. But he didn’t; he only stood there, listening to the muffled peals of laughter. Her happy shrieks got to him. He took off down along the lake. The night was thick and black. The full moon rolled steadily with him, shimmering silver across the dark water and mossy green edges of the walkway. His walk was long and languid. He had went so far he passed the pier, and farther still, where he could see the proud spike of the church steeple, splitting the night sky like the great white tail of a shark. He had not known how much time had gone by, only that the air had turned colder and the mist blowing in from the lake sprinkled painfully on his skin. He no longer recognized the small houses speckling the distant patches of land. He was only mildly nervous about moving beyond the familiar stretch of the lakeshore. He had been told on occasion that he blended so well into the dark night, he was nearly invisible. His thoughts were elsewhere, anyway; they lingered on the pink breast mole, and he wondered how it would feel against his own tongue.

It wasn’t a smooth mole, but rather a raised piece of salmon colored flesh that had Ricky mesmerized now. Nestled between her open legs, Ricky smothered himself in her neck, tasting the tender flesh while struggling with the knotted tie of her blouse. He had taken off her pants and panties and had managed to get his own pants down around his knees. But he wanted her naked. He had never been with a white girl, and he wanted all of her. She groaned; he groaned, but then she screamed.

He scrambled to get upright. “What’s wrong wit’chu?”

Wild-eyed she yelled, “Get off me!” sitting up and pummeling him.

He threw his hands up to protect his face. She hit hard and mean. He tried to grab her arms, but she was quick. She gouged her nails deep into his throat. He howled like a wounded animal and punched her. The pink flesh of her face appeared smashed, as if his fist had pummeled dough, and then it split open from the center and oozed blood. Horrified, he screamed. She screamed loud with her jaw dropping unhinged down to her chest. Then out of nowhere she upped a razor and swiped at his mid-section, but only nicked him as he flattened himself against the door. He snatched at the knife, her hand, but she moved so fast the hands seemed blurred and then multiplied. He felt the sting of cuts on his own hands as he wrestled her down, both leveled on the seat again. Grunting, sweating, snarling, he fought this girl with man-strength who shrieked like he was killing her. Their bodies writhing and twisting, she jerked her knee upward and he let out another hideous cry and fell back on the door that popped open, this time spilling him out onto the grass.

She bolted from the other door screaming, “They’re all over me! Get’em off me!” Running headlong down the grassy slope for the lake, hitting and scratching, slicing herself with her own razor.

“Hey! Hey!” Ricky tussled with his pants to get them up while running after her.

Sweed heard the distant yelling and looked up to see the spark of white limbs flailing and rushing for the lake. It was the white girl. Ricky was in chase. Sweed paused for a moment. He wasn’t sure what was happening. But the panicked way Ricky was hollering after her and how she was screaming, Sweed knew it was trouble. He started out trotting and then running when he saw the girl was already thrashing in the water; Ricky stopped short and didn’t go after her.

Sweed yelled, “What the hell, man?” She was going deeper into the lake. “Get outta there! You can’t swim in there!” Sweed said.