They come up to tell me what a good person I am, for letting the cook’s daughter swim with us. The girls build a village of sand hamlets—and a man carries chairs, sets them up, covers each one with a towel, adjusts the umbrella. I ask him about his own kids. They live in Canada with their mother while he works. “It must be hard,” I say and press money into his hand. He can’t thank me enough. The same with the woman bringing me the mango-banana daiquiri. I make a joke about wanting a tiny umbrella, and she returns with one and some pineapple and cherries. The girls build a moat to protect their town. I read the condensed New York Times, listen to an Elton John playlist. A chicken now and then runs from the bushes to the gravel to the sand and then back. Someone wants to know if it bothers me. He will kill the chicken if it does.

Edited to add: Congratulations to Randall Brown for this story “It Doesn’t” being included in the Wigleaf top 50 for 2010, judged by Brian Evenson.