FRIENDS

For a while, neither of them spoke. They’d known each other for years, and like with many old friends, their long silences were commonplace. The sea breeze combed through the long grass around them as they watched the ocean.

Three days ago, on Monday, a storm had roared through, battering the island for five hours. Not hurricane-force, nothing like Katrina, which both Barrow and Wallace remembered, or Camille, which was before their time — but enough to cause problems. Roof damage, trees down, an inch or two of floodwater in houses and shops. The following afternoon, the two of them had driven here, to this spot, and as they sat and watched the ocean Barrow told Wallace why he’d decided last night to leave the island. He’d only been here a week, but a week was long enough to make a decision.