“Don’t touch it. He’s dead.”

“How do you know?”

The young man pointed with a bare toe. “See that hole?”

“That’s a hole?”

She bent over and studied a stain on the shirt. The stain was the color of rust and the size of a sand dollar.

“Well, he didn’t just drown,” the young man announced.

His fiancee shivered a little and buttoned her sweater. “So what do we do now?”

“Now we get out of here.”

“Shouldn’t we call the police?”

“It’s our vacation, Cheryl. Besides, we’re a half-hour’s walk to the nearest phone.”

The young man was getting nervous; he thought he heard a boat’s engine somewhere around the point of the island, on the bay side.

The woman tourist said, “Just a second.” She unsnapped the black leather case that held her trusty Canon Sure-Shot.

“What are you doing?”

“I want a picture, Thomas.” She already had the camera up to her eye.

“Are you crazy?”

“Otherwise no one back home will believe us. I mean, we come all the way down to Miami and what happens? Remember how your brother was making murder jokes before we left? It’s unreal. Stand to the right a little, Thomas, and pretend to look down at it.”

“Pretend, hell.”

“Come on, one picture.”

“No,” the man said, eyeing the corpse.

“Please? You used up a whole roll on Flipper.”

The woman snapped the picture and said, “That’s good. Now you take one of me.”

“Well, hurry it up,” the young man grumped. The wind was blowing harder from the northeast, moaning through the whippy Australian pines behind them. The sound of the boat engine, wherever it was, had faded away.

The young man’s fiancee struck a pose next to the dead body: She pointed at it and made a sour face, crinkling her zinc-coated nose.

“I can’t believe this,” the young man said, lining up the photograph.