They anchored in a hurry among the boats outside the breakwater. Scores of rolling decks in a forest of masts. An offshore breeze whistled loud through the rigging. The patrol boat motored out of the breakwater. "It was the wheelchair," Mitchell said, hunched with the tiller tight against his chest. "He didn’t know how to play it."

Andy nodded, keeping low and watching until the patrol boat was out of sight.

"That felt like a day’s work," Mitchell said. "Any chance of getting a hot meal?"

Andy raised his eyebrows. "I’m too keyed up to fix the stove. We can try the grill."

From below he brought up their unused stainless-steel grill and tried to lock the adapter onto the stern pulpit. "This adapter won’t work." He turned it over like a curio in his palm.

"Why doesn’t that surprise me? Pull a drawer out of the galley and turn it upside down on the bench under the grill."

"And if the grill falls onto the sole the gas tank explodes."

"There is that. Then there’s hot food. You decide."

Andy took his time to think about it. Then he fashioned the grill on a drawer on the bench. He lit the coals and stood silently watching it, his eyes sad as he grasped what he had done. Caution usurped. Real hunger distorting his judgement for the first time. He climbed below and after a few minutes he reached out from the galley to set a pot on the grill.

The wind was building. Mitchell pulled on his rain jacket and sat with the wind’s heavy moan through the rigging. Food aromas from the grill were maddening. Andy climbed up with a clutch of bowls and utensils and stirred the pot. Then he served their first hot meal onboard. Hot New England clam chowder and char-roasted potatoes.

Mitchell was sure he had never eaten a more satisfying meal. Andy left a pot of water to heat on the grill while he washed the dishes in the galley sink. Then he took the pot below again. Leaning through the companionway he handed Mitchell a thermal mug with a cap on it.

"What’s this?" Mitchell had the tiller across his body with his arm draped comfortably on the teak.

Andy smiled. He wiped his hands on his shirt and shook his head as he turned back into the galley. Steam curled out from the hole in the lid of the mug. Mitchell sipped at it. Hot mint tea. My God this is heaven he thought. Real heaven.

The tea warmed them as dusk gathered the sky. Stars peeked out and a lone green rocket arced and exploded like a clap of thunder, bursting into long thin tentacles of radiant copper light trailing silver sparkle in the altitude over Provincetown.

Mitchell watched the colors dissolve into the early night. "What’s the occasion?"

Andy stared at him from the starboard bench. "It’s the Fourth of July."

"We’ve been out two weeks?"

"Thirteen days. Didn’t you know it was the Fourth?"

"I don’t pay much attention to it."

Another rocket whined into the night and exploded into a constellation of red light. One at a time the rockets went up. Andy got tired of it and climbed below. Mitchell drank hot tea and waited for the next rocket, a solitary ember of brilliant silver light arcing and exploding into a terrific spectrum of color flung across the breadth of the night. And disappearing.