“I still can’t believe we let the lanchero return to Florida,” said Robert, putting on a striped yellow and green t-shirt and cargo shorts.
“If he waited for us, the Cuban police would’ve caught him.” Oliver buckled his belt, then leaned on a tree while sliding his running boots onto his feet.
“We’ll lure him with money if we need him back,” said Betsy.
Oliver dropped his forehead on the tree’s trunk and sighed. “If? You mean ‘when.’”
“Are you still feeling sick?” Robert grabbed the younger man’s head and examined his eyes. He lit a pocket flashlight at his pupils as the moon glowed over them.
“Sick of the sea and this place.” The godson picked up a pebble and pitched it toward the water. He sat on the sand with his elbows on his knees. Betsy squatted and gave him
