Andy raced to the dinghy and dragged it through the mud into the surf and jumped in.

"Row, goddamn it! Row hard!" Mitchell pulled down the tiller and dragged his hand quickly along the teak to shape his thumb and palm. Heartbeats timed the seconds, his adrenaline kicked in. Andy climbed over the stern pulpit.

"Tie a fender to the anchor rode and throw it off," Mitchell said.

"What?"

"Do it."

"I don’t get it," Andy complained, hurrying below then reappearing and standing on the ladder with a fender.

Mitchell checked his impatience. "You should’ve come up through the forehatch."

"What’s this going to do?"

"Listen to me. Step lively and we’ll get out of here." A hollow echo resounded through the hull. The keel on rock. "Maybe not."

Andy vaulted onto the cabin top and scrambled to the foredeck. He tied the fender to the rode and threw them overboard.

"Make the main," Mitchell hollered. The keel thunked on rock. "I could hate that sound."

It was touch and go as the sloop drifted out to sea on the receding tide. Andy hauled the main aloft and the sail lifted gently on the breeze. Mitchell turned the sloop into deeper water, steering through yellow and blue and red and white striped lobster pot markers. Thick as lily pads, a highway of markers following the coast. "Strap my hand then take the dinghy and get the anchor," he said.

Andy rowed to the shallows for the anchor while Mitchell circled the sloop beyond the pot markers. Andy retrieved the fender and the rode and the anchor and then rowed back and tied the dinghy off on the stern. Breathing hard he climbed aboard and sat on the bench to starboard. "That fender was a good idea."

"Maybe someday you’ll believe I know what I’m doing," Mitchell said. "What’s the story from the post office?"

"LaFleur sent a money order receipt." Andy pulled a folded envelope from his back pocket.

"We don’t need the receipt."

"That’s what I’m saying. He sent the receipt not the money order." Andy held the carbon with both hands. "Is this a mistake or a joke?" He asked and he didn’t think it was funny.

"Who knows?" Mitchell exhaled aloud. "Who the hell knows?" He steered north and farther offshore. Andy sat straight-faced, watching ahead. Christ, Mitchell thought, I’d like to be holding four of a kind with that face. "I’ll go get some money," he said.

Andy looked at him. "How?"

"I’ll catch a bus out of Portsmouth." Mitchell nodded, accepting his own idea. "Why not? We can use a break. Come with me, or stay with the boat. Whatever you want."

"There’s a guy in Portsmouth I went to college with. Jeff." Andy’s expression brightened as he looked ahead. "I wouldn’t mind looking him up. See what he’s doing." He lowered his gaze to the cabin. "I’m hungry."