“Are you coming or not?” Chico forced Harpo right to the edge of the dock, where everything was in soft focus, purple and black and dangerous.
Harpo hesitated.
“Well?” said Chico.
“I’m going.” It was windy now too. And it smelled like seaweed. And it was hard to breathe with all the rushing air. He’d just have to step down, grab the side of the boat, the dock maybe?
“Go on then.”
“I am.” Harpo shuffled closer to the water. He bent at the waist, but there was nothing to hold onto. His brothers probably had no intention of getting into that canoe anyway. They were probably just going to shove him in and shove him out.
“So get in already, Harpo,” said Chico. “Checkout is on Tuesday. We only have a week left.” And then he crowded in so close that Harpo had nowhere to go but down.
Harpo
