She was right. A young couple took a hundred photos, each one more staged than the last. A grandfather lifted a toddler onto his shoulders, the child’s laughter carrying across the water. A woman in a straw hat sat alone, sketching the horizon with fierce concentration. And there, farther down, a man about Leo’s age—divorced? widowed? simply alone?—flew a kite shaped like a parrot, his face utterly peaceful.

The woman—her name was Margot, he’d learn—smiled. “Rain’s letting up in twenty minutes. When it does, I’ll show you what to really do in Siesta Key.” Twenty-two minutes later, the sun punched through the clouds like an afterthought. The world smelled of wet asphalt and blooming jasmine. Margot led Leo not toward the beach, but away from it, down a narrow path behind the hotel.

“It’s an observation.” She nodded toward his drink. “And a warning. Third rum punch at two in the afternoon on a rainy day in Siesta Key is not a cocktail. It’s a cry for help.”

The next morning, Leo woke before dawn. He walked the beach alone, as he’d originally planned. But he didn’t jog. He didn’t listen to a podcast or rehearse his to-do list. He just walked. The sand was cool. The gulf was flat and gray as mercury. A pelican cruised past, so low its wingtips nearly brushed the water.