Lights glitter on shore but the bay is dark. The Zodiac drifts, rocking gently, its bottom clunking and slapping on the swell. They lay on their backs, eyes wide, looking up. “Do you know any constellations?” asks the Swedish girl. Her name, he remembers now, is Carla. Do I know constellations, he thinks. Forgetting his beating heart, their solitude, the sensation of wet trunks clinging cold and clammy to febrile skin, and the pervasive smell of Coppertone (slightly ridiculous in the circumstances), he tells her about Andromeda and Perseus. She listens attentively. After a moment she snuggles closer for warmth.