Jeff ground another gear. "He makes an outstanding margarita."

"And swordfish on the grill," Andy said. "I picked us up an adapter."

"How’s the gas?" Mitchell asked.

"It’s full but we could use some groceries."

Christ it’s good to be with these guys Mitchell thought. He watched into the night while Jeff drove to a strip of land between the yacht club and the Coast Guard station. Andy got out for the dinghy, hidden under an overhang of bushes on the riverbank. The sloop shone white out in the black river, the hull and mast were illuminated by the lights at Coast Guard station. Andy stepped into the dinghy and pushed it away from the bank. "I’ll meet you at the dock," he said.

"Do you like the Stones?" Jeff shoved a cassette into a tape deck rigged with a bracket under the dashboard. He shifted into gear and the transmission snarled. Music rattled loose speakers somewhere in the dash. "Andy says you’re heading for the tropics."

"I’m just trying to get to Portland," Mitchell said.

"I know what you mean. I’m trying to finish my Master’s without worrying about my loans and the job market."

"Which market is that?"

"Fiber-optics. A friend of mine just started at sixty-thousand a year. He says that’s peanuts. And I’m still trying to finish my thesis."

Mitchell bent his arm out the window and a breeze fragrant through the deciduous trees warmed his face as he listened to Jeff’s stories about moving to Portsmouth and his escapades there. He drove onto the main thoroughfare through Old Portsmouth and pointed out his favorite eateries and the best watering holes. Mitchell was content to watch the town pass by.

‘Wild, wild horses. We’ll ride them someday.’

Jeff slowed the car along a small wooded park that sloped down to a well-lit fifty-foot dock along the riverside. He parked at the top of the hill and both men appreciated the lights from Kittery and Portsmouth rippling silver and yellow on the river. Jeff pushed his door open to stretch a leg. "There’s Andy."

The sloop had appeared down river out of the night and they watched Andy steer alongside the dock. Jeff walked down to help him with the dock lines, well enough to look like teamwork. It was obvious they had been sailing. What the hell Mitchell thought, it’s a sailboat.

Andy and Jeff walked up to the car and unloaded Mitchell’s gear with the same clamor. Andy helped Mitchell transfer and then spotted him down the long slope onto the dock. With Jeff’s help Andy carried Mitchell aboard the sloop. A frigid sensation quickened Mitchell’s body, gooseflesh wrinkled his arms as the pressure sore absorbed the hardness of the helmchair. Pulling his grasping glove from the cubbyhole he worked it on with his teeth while Andy and Jeff said goodbye.

Jeff said, "Good luck."

"Thanks," Mitchell told him.