As if he can read my thoughts, Mars pulls a resort beach towel out of the bag at his feet. “Here, Ryan. Cover yourself.” I take it gratefully, wincing as the rough terrycloth rubs my burned shoulders. But it’s a block from the sun. I throw it over my shoulders like a cape, lifting it over my hat too. I huddle beneath it, feeling hungry and thirsty and sweaty and miserable. I am never going deep sea fishing again.
