Of all the atrocious shit I’ve done since my father died—vandalizing cars, getting into drunken brawls—the thoughts I’m having right now are by far the worst.

I stand above Stella while she spreads the blanket out on the sand. Her skirt is in tatters in my car, so she’s wearing nothing but panties and a button-down shirt. And not a single one of the buttons are fastened, thanks to some work from my deft fingers back in the truck. So she’s on her knees, arranging the blanket and her ...