"Hockey. If you took hockey away, this country would shrivel up and die."

"It's a decent game," Keith said. "I'm not a fanatic about it, though."

"Why do Canadians do it doggy-style?" The man didn't look at Keith as he spoke.

"I don't know."

"So they can both watch the hockey game."

Keith left the bar and went into the men's room. When he was at the urinal he heard the door swing open behind him and then the creak of leather. There were several urinals available, but the man bellied up to the adjacent one. Keith washed his hands quickly and headed back to the bar; he still had more than half a beer left.

The man came back a moment later. He kept his leather-clad back to the crowd this time, and Keith had the feeling the man was staring at the back of his head in the bartender's mirror. "I think I've got stomach cancer," he said. "Something not right in there."

"That's rough," Keith said. He knew he should feel sympathy for the guy but somehow he didn't.

The music changed to some ancient Neil Young song. The man pounded the bar in time to the music, hard enough to rattle his ashtray. "I know what we could do," he said, suddenly gripping Keith's bicep. "We could go to the beach."

"Uh-uh. It must be twenty degrees out there."

"Twenty degrees, big deal. Beach is great in winter. We could buy a six-pack."

"No, thanks. I'd rather stay where it's warm."

"I was kidding," the guy said, but the grip on Keith's arm intensified. "Could take a drive out to Callander, though. Car's got a CD player. What kind of music do you like?"

"Lots of kinds."

A woman materialized out of the haze and asked Keith if she could bum a smoke. The man instantly let go of Keith's arm and turned his back. It was as if a spell had been broken.

Keith offered the woman his Player's Lights. He would never have paid her the slightest attention if she hadn't spoken to him. She was pudgy around the edges, with almost no chest. And there was something off-putting about her face. The skin was stiff and shiny from some skin disorder. It was more like a mask than a face.

"My boyfriend and I were just saying you looked interesting. Are you from out of town?"

"It's that obvious?"

"We thought you looked interesting. Come and have a beer with us. We're dying of boredom."

Now, never mind how someone looks, Keith said to himself. This is just the kind of thing you always want to happen and never does: friendly people taking an interest. He regretted his inner critique of her appearance.

The woman led him past the jukebox to a small table in the corner where a guy who looked maybe thirty was peeling the label from his Molson bottle, frowning as if it were the most important project in the world. He looked up as they approached, asking before they even sat down, "So, was I right? Is he from Toronto?"

"You two are amazing," Keith said. "I just got into town an hour ago. From Toronto."

"Well, it's not that amazing, really," the woman said, watching her boyfriend pour beer into their three glasses. "You look far too cool to be from around this dump."

Keith shrugged. "Place doesn't seem so bad. Guy at the bar was a little strange."

"Yeah, we noticed," the man said quietly. "Figured someone should come to your rescue."

"Hey! You've got cigarettes!"

The woman said, "It was the only way I could think of to introduce myself. I'm terrible at talking to strangers." Her boyfriend was lighting an Export "A" and offering the pack with a flick of the wrist. He was not quite handsome. Dark hair swept back from his brow and sat up in oily spikes along the crown of his head, as if he had just matured from a punk rock phase. And his skin was so pale that blue veins showed below his eyes and at the temples. It was the ferretlike cast to the eyes that spoiled his face a little, but he had a huddled attitude, an intense way of moving- now leaning forward to pour beer, now offering a cigarette- that captured Keith's imagination. It seemed to say he had far more important things to do at any moment, but just now he would pour you a beer or offer you a smoke. It was very compelling, and Keith wondered what he was doing with this woman with the fiberglass face.

"I guess I forgive you," Keith said cheerfully. He took a sip of beer. "My name's Keith, by the way."

"I'm Edie. He's Eric."

"Eric and Edie. Awesome."

Keith became chatty over the second pitcher of beer. It was a weakness he was aware of in himself but could not stop. "Such a Chatty Cathy," his girlfriend teased him sometimes. He was telling Eric and Edie he had just completed high school and was taking a year off, before university, to travel the country. He had already been to the East Coast and was now headed in a leisurely way toward Vancouver. Then he got on to politics and the economy. He delivered his opinions about Quebec; now he was going on about the bloody Maritimes. God, I'm a motor-mouth, he thought. Somebody stop me.

"Newfoundland," he heard himself saying. "Man, what a disaster area. Half the province is out of work because we ate all the fish. Can you imagine? There's no goddam cod left! If it wasn't for oil, the entire island would be on unemployment." He flicked his hair for emphasis. "Entire island."

The couple didn't seem to tire of him at all. Edie kept her face in the shadows, probably to hide that weird skin, but she fired off question after question. And Eric spoke up every now and then, asking this or that, and off Keith would go with another opinion, another report. It was like being interviewed.

"What brings you to Algonquin Bay, Keith?" Edie asked. "Do you know anybody here? Do you have relatives?"

"Naw, my family's all from Toronto. Toronto from way back. Real old-school Anglican, you know?"

Edie nodded, although Keith had the sense that she didn't really understand. She kept bringing a hand to her face or pulling her hair over her cheek like a curtain.

"I didn't really have any reason to stop here," he told them, "except a friend of mine passed through Algonquin Bay a couple of years ago and said he had a really good time."

"Didn't he give you some names of people to stay with? You're not staying at a hotel, are you?"

"Thought I might head over to the Birches after. Cabdriver said it's pretty decent for the price."

They asked him more questions. About Toronto, the crime, all the films being shot down there. Who were the hot bands? Where were the hot clubs? How could he stand the crowds, the pace, those subways? Pitchers of beer appeared. Packs of cigarettes. It was exactly the kind of convivial scene Keith loved, the kind of thing that made travel such a kick, the three of them really hitting it off. All the time, Edie seemed to hang off Eric's every word, and Keith began to see what it was he saw in her: adoration.

"We've been thinking of visiting Toronto," Edie said at one point. "But it's so expensive. It's outrageous what hotels charge down there."

"Stay with me," Keith said. "I expect to be back there by August at the latest. You could come and stay at my place. I could show you the big city. Man, we could have a time."

"It's awfully kind of you…"

"Consider it done. Give me something to write on. I'll write down my address."

Eric, who had been practically motionless all this time, pulled a small pad from his pocket and handed him a mechanical pencil.

While Keith was writing down his address, phone number, e-mail, and everything else he could think of, Edie and Eric conferred in whispers. He tore off the square of paper and handed it to Eric, who studied it closely before slipping it into his pocket. Then Edie said decisively, "We've got an extra room, Keith. Why don't you come and stay with us?"

"Oh, hey, I wasn't angling for a free room."

"No, no. We realize that."