When Mr. Davy parks the car at Rockhill Lake, Nathan promptly opens the car door and pukes.
“You couldn’t have made it to the bathroom?” Mr. Davy says. He opens his water bottle and pours it over the small pool of throw up, and chunks of bologna sandwich run in rivulets across the asphalt. He offers the water bottle to Nathan, who takes a swig, swishes, and spits it onto the ground.
“Sorry,” Nathan says.
“Nathan, honey, wipe your mouth,” Mrs. Davey says, “and put on some sunscreen.”
She squirts a palmful of SPF 70 into Nathan’s hand, and he smears it over his face and across his ghost-white torso. Against his neon orange swim trunks, he has the appearance of a reflective traffic cone.