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At the table built for six, in that quirky space between the kitchen and living-room, sit the four that count, the four that remain. David in his eternal Woolrich shirt, button-down Jeff in faded jeans and Bucks, Dickie as highschool teacher, khakied and sweater-vested, and Echo.

Echo traces the edge of Atlantic beach on the placemat that came home one Tuesday after a long weekend before she understood long weekends.

Jeff searches his piece of rocky coast for a drink.

Dickie says, She’s right.

I don’t say right, Echo says.

Her decision, Jeff says. He stands and goes to the kitchen, the inland capital of drinks.

Her decision, David says.

I’m making drinks, Jeff says into the passthrough, a square hollow built in the wall between the rooms, a sea cave carved by nature to immortalize his voice.

He’s making drinks, Dickie says.

He’s making drinks, David says to Echo, his neck shrinking into the rising tide of his Woolrich.

Echo’s finger draws a line in the beach sand. It outlines the sea-cut boulders, climbs the lighthouse staircase. Make me one, she says.