The pirate is there to greet them.

Jonathan grabs the hilt of her sword to make sure it’s real. Darren honks her wooden breasts.

“Good job, Darren,” Miriam says. “You guys are definitely old enough to drink.”

His friends are talking to the pirate, saluting her, but Lance is watching the rest of the bar. A few bearded truckers by the door. A table of farmers with John Deere caps, bills flat as dinner plates. A family of five with giant teeth, eating meatloaf. All of them, eating meatloaf like it’s their job. And a dark corner booth with familiar faces. A guy with floppy hair. Another one, short and tough-looking.

Meebs and Rocco.

Does he actually know those guys?

“Darren, chill,” Jonathan says. Darren is dancing for the pirate.

“Why?”

Jonathan has also noticed the rest of the bar.

“Deene ne nee ne neee ne ne neeee.” Jonathan plucks a tiny, invisible banjo.

“Stop it,” Miriam says, slapping him.

“What?” Jonathan asks.

“They’ll get the joke,” she says. “These people speak banjo.”

“Can I help you?” a voice booms. “C’mon in. Step right up!”

Mason’s father, behind the bar. He reels them in. Jonathan and Darren exchange a nakedly excited look. Mason’s father Frisbees a fresh pair of coasters onto the bar.

“I’ll do a Jack and Coke,” Darren says, tossing his words at the floor like it’s no thing.

Mason’s father looks them over. The man’s eyes settle on Lance, his thin lips curling into a smile. He nods and turns toward the bottles. The group breaks into a silent celebration. Darren pumps his fists and Jonathan does a tap-dance shuffle. When Mason’s father turns around, they snap back into nonchalance.

“What about the rest of you?”

They all order. They’re all served.

“Cool, Lance,” Miriam says. Her biggest smile.

Mason’s father stands tall over the drinks, like he hasn’t quite parted with them. He grins and says: “How would y’all like to make a little bet?” Mason’s father winks at Lance, who steps back.

“I’m going to push some tables together,” Lance says. He turns to the corner booth. Dakota. She is there now. Watching him, something new and shaky behind her eyes. He walks toward the booth and the floor stretches out, becoming the distance between worlds. Everyone is there, all watching: Dakota, Breanna, Meebs, Rocco, and Mason.

“Look what just blew in,” Mason says.

“I can’t believe he acknowledged us,” Breanna says.

“Your friends are so pretty,” Rocco says.

“Like a commercial for fine hair products,” Breanna says.

“I want to hit them,” Rocco says. “Not hard, though. Just like, pop.”

“Totally,” Meebs says. “Especially her. I’d hit that.”

“Easy,” Rocco says. “That’s Wildman’s girl.”

“Wildman has a girl?”

“Oh, you think?” Rocco says. Just then, Miriam looks over in her most girlfriendy way. Soft eyes, little smile. Behind her, Mason’s father is holding a ten-dollar bill up to the light.

“Want to save them some money?” Rocco asks.

“I don’t know,” Lance says as Darren hands over a ten-dollar bill. “I’m kind of enjoying it.”

“Welcome to the dark side,” Meebs says, raising his glass.

They toast, and Mason’s father is taking a black marker to his friends’ money. He’s pointing at the prize wheel and Miriam is grinning, nodding vigorously.

“So Wildman,” Mason says. He makes a show of turning his head in this regal way, like a king addressing his subjects. “We were just having a discussion about your other life. Your real life.”

“Yeah?” Lance says.

“We’re trying to decide if Wildman really fits.”

Lance’s right leg pops into action. Trying to carry his whole body away.

Dakota told them about his speech. His ACT score. Everything.

Dakota won’t look at him. He should grab her hand, down Mason with a punch, and blast through the front door of The Float. That’s what Wildman would do. Bend is watching from the bar, and Mason just keeps talking.

“You’re not a stoner,” Mason says.

“No smoke breaks,” Meebs says, raising a finger.

“Probably not a rebel,” Mason says.

“Pleats,” Breanna says. She snickers, tries to catch Dakota’s eye.

“I said loner,” Rocco says.

“But look at his friends,” Mason says. Rocco shrugs. “Not a stoner, not a loner, not a burnout, not a rebel. Too small for football. Not much left. Except nerd.”

“Band geek,” Rocco says.

“Exactly,” Mason says, clapping. “He talks to his mom on the phone. Plays the trumpet. I mean, who plays the trumpet? Is that wild?”

Lance chokes back names: Lee Morgan. Chet Baker. Bix Beiderbecke. All wild. Murdered or overdosed on heroin. But this knowledge will not help him.

“And look at his girlfriend. Homecoming queen.” Miriam was not homecoming queen, but she was on the homecoming planning committee. Also, not helpful.

“I got it figured out,” Mason says, putting a hand on Lance’s back. “Your new name.”

And under the weight of Mason’s hand, Lance’s shoulders tighten with his awareness of what’s happening. He failed to notice the posturing. Somber expressions. The ceremonial markings. This is a ritual this group has performed before. For Meebs. For Stone.

A Nicknaming.

“He’ll be gone tonight,” Dakota says. “Don’t waste your time.”

“How much you want to bet he won’t be gone, Dakota?” Mason says. “I think he’ll stay as long as you’ll keep him around. Only he’s not going to be Wildman anymore.”

“Okay, Mason. What’s his new name?” Dakota says.

“Wait for it.”

Rocco does a drumroll on the table.

“Blower,” Mason says, beaming.

“Blower?” Breanna says.

“The trumpet,” Mason says. “Blower.”

“Oh,” Breanna says. “He doesn’t like that. Look at him.”

“Dumb,” Dakota says.

“Not your decision,” Mason says.

“Who decides?” Dakota says. “You?”

“That’s my job.”

“Here we go!” Mason’s father shouts from behind the bar. Darren in his socks, holding his blue high-tops. The bar crew cheers and Darren slings his shoes into the rafters, where they knock around and hang. Mason’s father cranks the prize wheel and the colors blend to gray.

“Free round of drinks!”

A cheer goes up. Miriam wraps her arms around Darren. Just for a second. But it happens.

“I tried to give myself a nickname once,” Meebs says. “Didn’t work.”

“That’s because you called yourself The Cool, you jackass,” Rocco says.

“The Cool?” Breanna says. “Why?”

“Because I am cool,” Meebs says.

How had he become Meebs? How had James become Stone?

“I can’t wait to meet your friends, Blower,” Mason says.

Blower. Five minutes ago, he was still Wildman. And Wildman, as a nickname, could’ve smoldered and died in the wilderness. But not Blower. Blower was a name mean enough to catch fire. Darren will fan the flames and Blower will come raging across four hundred miles of fields, mountains, and streams. Blower will follow him back to Bend, all the way to OSU. It will burn him to the ground and be spray-painted on his gravestone when he dies. And he can’t stop it.

Bend is coming toward them, holding drinks.

This collision is inevitable. Darren is first, and gets right in his face.

“Dude! We got served! Twice!” Darren holds up his drinks. He is shorter than usual.

“Darren,” Lance says. “You have no shoes.”

“I’ve got shoes at home. These are your friends?”

The groups are mixed-pressure weather systems, swirling together. Lance stands in the awkward center, and Mason steps in to join him.

“So you guys are friends with Blower?” He slaps Lance’s back, as if hanging a kick me sign. Confusion hovers a moment, then the realization curls up behind their eyes like smoke.

“Blower,” Darren says, testing the word.

“Blower?” Jonathan says. “We call him Lancelot.”

“We call him Blower,” Mason says. “He plays trumpet, right?”

“And the skin flute,” Darren says.

“Ow!” Meebs says, snapping his fingers.

“Nice one.” Mason’s hand continues to press on Lance’s back, burning a hole.

“Blower,” Miriam says, looking disappointed.

“To Blower, everyone!” Darren says. They toast. They drink.

And The Nicknaming is complete.

The groups are mixing, laughing, bonding over Lance. An unsteady, seasick feeling. He’s being tossed between Wildman, Lancelot, Blower. People stand around. There are not enough seats.

“Do any of you want to sit?” Dakota offers her side of the booth.

“Just Lance?” Rocco asks. “Or anybody?”

Dakota ignores him. The comment could slip by, but Mason has to laugh. Forced laughter, trying to catch peoples’ eyes.

“Oooo,” Mason says, looking from Lance to Miriam. “Oh, man.”

“Dakota doesn’t want to sit with the townies anymore,” Breanna says. Mason nods.

“She wants a taste of the high life,” Rocco says.

“She’s trading up,” Meebs says. “Icing us doooow—”

Dakota knocks a glass of ice water in Meebs’s lap.

“Shit, Dak!” Meebs scrambles out of his seat. “Ah!”

The group is laughing—both groups. Meebs is flailing and gets Rocco wet. They shove each other, piling out.

“Booth’s open,” Dakota says.

Rocco and Mason move a table over. Miriam touches Lance’s arm.

“Want to sit next to me?” Miriam asks.

Where can he sit? Where is Dakota? She is not at the table nor the booth and when he turns she is walking away from them, dark hair swinging. She walks straight out through the door. He needs to scream her name. Run after her. And he cannot. His feet are stuck to the floor. His expression, frozen at indifferent. The only expression he’s allowed.

“Who was that?” Miriam asks.

“Dakota.”

It’s hard, speaking her name. As if saying Dakota will force him to explain things. They sit down and Miriam holds his hand on top of the table. Her fingers are loose against his fingers, resting on a glossy menu.

“So what do you think?” Lance says.

“Of Dakota?” Miriam smiles.

He squeezes her hand a little too hard. “No. This bar. This whole experience.”

“Classy.” She raises her eyebrows, like she just smelled something foul.

Darren says, “Hey Blower, pass the salt,” and Miriam laughs a genuine laugh for Darren. This laughter. Those raised eyebrows. And what if he’d been wrong about Miriam all along? About all of her hidden depth and insight and hunger? Holding her limp hand on this menu, she suddenly seems more pond than ocean. Like if he tried to dive into her with his whole self, he’d break his neck.

Lance looks at the floor and whispers: “Dakota.”

“What?” Miriam asks.

He takes another drink of the whisky in front of him. He’s getting drunk, and he doesn’t want to be drunk. The groups mix like oil and water all shaken up. Droplets in suspension. Too many stories, crashing together. Most of them about the accident.

“So Wildman clocks Breanna,” Rocco says.

“Pa-kow!” Meebs says. “Knocks her flat on her ass.”

“Stone was wasted,” Meebs says. “Of course.”

“He shouldn’t have been driving,” Miriam says.

This is the story. Stone was driving. Stone was not actually driving, but that’s not important. The story is what matters. The story is what’s true. And now they’re telling stories about Lance.

Blower.

Lancelot.

Wildman.

These names, closing in. Miriam asks if he’s okay and he nods and stares at the sugar cubes on the table. They are perfect. White and solid with clean edges. Knowable mathematical units.

“Earth to Lancelot,” Jonathan says. “Is that story true?”

“Which one?”

“You actually jumped a train?”

Lance nods.

“Who are you, man?”

Lance stares back at his best friend and has no answer. Meebs and Darren are at the jukebox, pumping out classic rock. Mason is laughing, and now Jonathan is removing his shoes. His friends are in socks and Mason has so many stories. The stories sew them all together.

Two groups becoming one.

He can’t listen.

He plays John Cage’s 4′33″ in his head and takes out one sugar cube and tries to remember one true thing. He can remember Dakota’s hand. The rest of the room is starting to slip. He needs Dakota’s hand. Her hand would not slip away. It would not pull back at the last second. He could hold that hand and feel something real and make himself still.

And there is stillness all around. Friends carved from stone. No one is moving. No one is speaking. Lance is the only one who can move, because a stiff hand on his shoulder is pulling him up and out of his chair. This person coming to collect him from frozen time is a giant with a club and a gun and a bright silver badge.

The officer squeezes Lance’s shoulder harder than he needs to.

“You must be the Wildman,” he says. “Come with me.”