[The hat sits atop a young man's body. In a moment it will turn up its wide brim to reveal some of the face beneath: pale and lean, scattered blemishes, hair like a fringe of beaten straw. Hesitant in the hat's shadow. Looking at her face, the smile that is and isn't a smile, looking at her hand.

Carefully he reaches out, cold fingertips in half a glove, to receive the spray of mint.]

Untethered, [he says, soft.] Adrift and drifting on another strange sea. The beacon fades, the currents carry their cargo where they will. Why here?