Jim snorted. “No, it’s a beautiful name. Mooncalf.”
  Owen remained silent, still numb from meeting the interloper.
  “Well, if he’s a Mooncalf then what am I?”
  “Kitten,” Jimmy laughed.
  “If I’m Kitten, then you’re Cat.”
  “All right, then I’m Cat. Now, what shall we call this island?”
  “Outerbridge,” Owen said. “Call it Outerbridge.”
  “That’s not the game,” Jimmy grinned, and damn if his smile wasn't dazzling.
  Anyone would fall in love with this guy, anyone, man, woman, or dog, he was so damn 
attractive and warm, it made Owen want to walk away and forget about Jenna completely. 
“The game is everything, Mooncalf. It doesn't matter what things are. You shape them into 
the way you want them. That's how you gain mastery.”
  “Mastery’s the thing,” Owen said, faking a sort of blissful — and very nearly 
nonchalant — take on all of it.
  I’ll beat you, he thought as he watched his rival, this apollonian boy with his golden 
hair and squinty green eyes and the way he had arrogance that was absolutely seductive.
  I will beat you, Owen made the oath then and there. He glanced briefly up at the 
unfettered sun and prayed that if nothing else went his way in this life, he would beat 
down this Jimmy.
  Then, Owen reached out and gave Jimmy’s shoulder a friendly squeeze.
  “Just not big on games I guess.”
  Jenna laughed, “Owen, the game is called Paradise. You rename everything to your 
liking. Jimmy invented it. Isn’t it…marvelous?” She pecked the bastard on his ear. Owen 
noted: the kiss went to his earlobe, and Jimmy barely had an earlobe. His ear was smooth 
and rounded and touched down right behind one of his several dimples.
  Jimmy laughed, shrugging, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her close to him. 
“Let’s call the island Sea Biscuit.”
  “No,” Jenna groaned. “That’s terrible. Terrible. Owen, you name it.”
  “Outerbridge,” Owen said.
  It was noon, and they were at the jetty. The sailboat bobbed gently with the current, 
and Owen finally took his baseball cap off.
  “There now,” Jimmy said, approvingly. “You look less like a little boy than like a man. 
The Mooncalf has such pretty hair for a moody guy.” He reached over and scruffed his hand 
through Owen’s hair. His fingers felt electric. “I know the name for this island. I know. 
It’s called Bermuda. We're in Bermuda,” he laughed, leaning into Jenna, kissing her just 
behind her ear.
  No, Owen thought. You’re in the realm of Dagon.
  8
  A restless night came to him, and then another and another. He lay on his single bed, 
sheets pulled back, and a fever such as he had never before felt washed over him.
  Whosoever has loved the way I love Jenna Montgomery, he whispered to the stars through 
his bedroom window, has known sacrifice and torture and days and nights of endless 
wanting, thirst without satisfaction, hunger without morsel. Whosoever has wept within 
themselves for what they could not reach, could not touch, has felt what I feel.
  Whosoever has spent his life working his body, mind, and soul to its absolute limit to 
be the extreme candidate for the love of a beautiful and angelic girl as I have for her, 
as I have given myself to the shape that she would long for…
  That man would not rest were a rival to steal the prize from him.
  Dagon, he whispered soundlessly. Dagon. My god. Bring her to me.
  Eventually, Owen Crites slept better imagining the world under the sea where the people 
who were part of Dagon had dwelt, with their vast and imperious citadels, their large 
cold eyes and their wet shapeless forms, and he imagined the great sacrifice he would 
throw to them for their entertainment.
  9
  “How are you going to waste your last summer?” Owen’s mother asked as she switched off 
the faucet, plunging her hands back into the soapy water.
  “Now, don’t blot, Owen, dry. There’s a difference.” She passed him the first dish, 
which he sprayed down and then wiped with the green-and-white hand towel. The kitchen in 
the caretaker’s house was as narrow as one of the closets in the big house; but the 
window looked out on a small sunken garden; behind which, the pine trees stuck out like 
crooked teeth. “Don’t blot,” his mother repeated.
  Owen began stacking the dry plates carefully. “I need a job.”
  “You work for your father.”
  “Not this summer,” he replied. “Hank’ll do without me.”
  “Hank?” his mother said, nearly laughing. “Hank? Next you’ll be calling me Trudy.” 
Then, her mood darkened. “Show some respect.” His mother reached down to pull the plug on 
the drain. She reached back to her hairpins, pulling them out so that her gray-streaked 
hair fell along her shoulders. She smoothed it back, and turned to watch him dry the rest 
of the plates and bowls from supper. “I know what you’re thinking.”
  He glanced at her for the barest moment.
  “You’re thinking that you’ll work down where she goes at night. The restaurant. The 
dock. You’ll be there for the dances. I’ve seen the boys working at those places. They 
live here all year ’round. But in the summer, sometimes they get the rich girls. But 
those girls don’t care about them. The boys are just part of summer to those girls. Just 
like the beach. Just like a walk.”
  He remained silent, and kept his eyes on each bowl as he carefully wiped the towel 
through them.
  “I grew up in her world. I know what she’d have to give up. Don’t ask her to do it. Not 
if you care about her,” his mother said. Then, she nearly snickered.
  “What’s funny?” he asked.
  “I remember your father at your age, is all. I remember him so well,” she said. “He’s 
working on the pump now. The pump and the well. Today he worked on the azaleas and the 
roses. Tomorrow, he’ll probably check the pool.
  If I had only known then. Owen, you might as well go find that pirate treasure as think 
that a girl like that will be interested in you beyond these summerish flings.”
  Owen dropped the towel on top of the cutting board, and turned to walk away. “I know 
what you get up to,” his mother called to him, but he had already stepped out of the 
house, letting the screen door swing lazily shut.
  “You’re nearly a man, Owen. You need to grow out of all your imaginings now.”
  Her voice, behind him, was part of another layer of existence. The smell of fresh grass 
mingled with the slight scent of the roses which were just blooming in spirals and curves 
up on the bluffs.
  He walked to the edge of the hill, feeling the late sun stroke him like a warm hand. At 
the rim of the koi pond, he knelt down and looked at his reflection in the green water. 
Soon, the patchwork fish came to the surface. He reached his hand into the murkiness, 
shivering with the chill, and found the god laying where he’d left it, behind the lava 
rocks.
  He felt the edge of the god’s face.
  10
  In a school notebook, Owen wrote: