"Then you're a damn fool."

"Scared a what?"

"Of getting busted in a stolen boat," she said. "Or getting the shit beat out of you by my crazy jealous boyfriend back in Miami. Or maybe you're just scared of the cops."

Shiner said, "What cops?"

"The cops I ought to call the second we see a phone. To say I was kidnapped by you and nearly raped by your redneck pals."

"Oh God." Noisily Shiner launched the remainder of breakfast.

Afterwards he restarted the engines and off they went, the hull of the Reel Luvpounding like a tom-tom. Amber was still trying to sort out what had happened on the island. Shiner hadn't been much help; the more earnestly he'd tried to explain it, the nuttier it sounded.

This much she knew: The woman with the shotgun was the one the rednecks had robbed of the lottery ticket.

"How'd she find you guys all the way out here?" Amber had wondered, to which Shiner had proposed a fantastically muddled scenario involving liberals, Cubans, Democrats, commies, armed black militants, helicopters with infrared night scopes, and battalions of foreign-speaking soldiers hiding in the Bahamas. Wisely Shiner had refrained from tossing in the Jews, although he couldn't stop himself from asking Amber (in a whisper) if her last name was actually Bernstein, as Chub had raged.

"Or d'you make that up?"

"What's the difference," she'd said.

"I don't know. None, I guess."

"You'd still marry me, wouldn't you? In about ten seconds flat." Amber winking at her joke, which had caused Shiner to redden and turn away.

That was after Chub had been shot and the colonel had been knocked out and Amber had fixed herself up and put on some clean clothes. Then the black woman and the white guy had collected the militia's guns – the AR-15, the TEC-9, the Cobray, the Beretta, even Shiner's puny Marlin .22 – and heaved them one after another into the bay. The only thing that didn't get tossed was a can of pepper spray, which the black woman placed in her handbag.

Afterwards she'd told Shiner and Amber to take the stolen boat back to the mainland. The black woman (JoLayne was her name) had marked the way on the chart and had even given them bottled water and cold drinks for the journey. Then the white guy had pulled Shiner aside, into the woods, and when they'd returned Shiner was ashen. The white guy had handed Chub's Colt Python to Amber with instructions to "shoot the little creep if he tries anything funny."

Amber didn't have much faith in the big revolver since it had misfired once already, but she didn't mention that to Shiner. Besides, he looked too sick and dejected for mischief.

Which he was. The white guy, JoLayne's friend, hadn't laid a hand on him in the mangroves. Instead he'd looked the kid square in the eyes and said, "Son, if Amber doesn't get home safe and sound, I'm going straight to your momma in Grange and tell her everything you've done. And then I'm going to put your name and ugly skinheaded picture on the front page of the newspaper, and you're going to be famous in the worst possible way."

And then he'd calmly escorted Shiner back to the shore and helped him into the boat. JoLayne Lucks had been waiting with the shotgun, watching over Bodean Gazzer and Chub. The white guy had waded in, shoving the stern into deeper water so Shiner and Amber could lower the outboards without snagging bottom.

"Have a safe trip," the black woman had sung out. "Watch out for manatees!"

An hour later Shiner finally heard what he'd been dreading – a helicopter. But it was blaze orange, not black. And it wasn't NATO but the U.S. Coast Guard, thwock-thwocking back and forth in search of a woman overdue in a small rental boat; a woman who'd said she was going no farther than Cotton Key.

Shiner had no way of knowing this. He was convinced the chopper had been sent to strafe him. He dove to the deck, yanking Amber with him.

"Look out! Look out!" he hollered.

"Would you please get a grip."

"But it's them!"

The helicopter dipped low over the boat. The crew spotted the couple entwined on the deck and, accustomed to such amorous sightings, flew on. Clearly it wasn't the vessel they'd been sent to find..

Once the chopper disappeared, Shiner sheepishly collected himself. Amber shoved the chart under his chin and told him to quit behaving like a wimp. An hour later, the Jewfish Creek drawbridge came into view. They nosed the Reel Luvinto the slip farthest from the dockmaster (its owner would be puzzled but pleased to find it there, and the theft would be ascribed to joyriding teenagers). Mindful of his throbbing thumbs, Shiner struggled to tie off the bow rope. Amber scouted for the marine patrol, just in case. She was relieved to spot her car, undisturbed in the parking lot.

Shiner gave a glum wave and said, "See ya."

"Where you going?"

"To the highway. Try and hitch a ride."

Amber said, "I'll drop you in Homestead."

"Naw, that's OK." He was worried about her boyfriend, jealous Tony. Maybe she was setting him up for an ass-whupping.

"Suit yourself," she said.

Shiner thought: God, she's so pretty. To hell with it. He said, "Maybe I will bum along."

"That's a good way to describe it. You drive."

They were halfway up Highway One to Florida City when Amber took Chub's pistol out again, leading Shiner to believe he'd misjudged her intentions.

"You're gone kill me, ain't you?"

"Oh right," Amber said. "I'm going to shoot you in broad daylight in all this traffic, when I had all morning to blow your head off in the middle of nowhere and dump your body in the drink. That's what a dumb bimbo I am. Just drive, OK?"

The way Shiner was feeling, a hot slug in the belly couldn't have hurt much worse than her sarcasm. He clamped his eyes on the road and tried to cook up a story for his Ma when he got back to Grange. The next time he glanced over at Amber, she'd gotten the Colt open. She was spinning the cylinder and peering, with one eye, into the chambers.

"Hey," she said.

"What's that?"

"Stop the car."

"OK, sure," said Shiner. Carefully he guided the gargantuan Ford to the grassy shoulder, scattering a flock of egrets.

The gun lay open on Amber's lap. She was unfolding a small piece of paper that had fallen from one of the bullet chambers.

Shiner said, "Lemme see."

"Just listen: Twenty-four ... nineteen ... twenty-seven ... twenty-two ... thirty ... seventeen."

Shiner said, "God, don't tell me it's the damn Lotto!"

"Yup. Your dumb shitkicker buddies hid it inside the gun."

"Oh man. Oh man. But – d-damn, what do we do now?"

Amber snapped the revolver shut and slipped the lottery coupon in a zippered pocket of her jumpsuit.

"You want me to keep drivin'?" Shiner asked.

"I think so, yes."

They didn't speak again until Florida City, where they stopped at a McDonald's drive-thru. They were fifth in the line of cars.

Amber said, "We've got a decision to make, don't we?"

"I always get the Quarter Pounder."

"I'm talking about the Lotto ticket."

"Oh," said Shiner.

"Fourteen million dollars."

"God, I know."

"Sometimes there's a difference," Amber said, "between what's right and what's common sense."

"Good."

"All I'm saying is, we need to think this out from all angles. It's a big decision. Order me a salad, would you? And a Diet Coke."

Shiner said, "You wanna split some fries?"

"Sure."

Later, sitting at the traffic light near the turnpike ramp, Shiner heard Amber say: "What do you think they did to your buddies? Back on the land, I mean. What do you think happened after we left?"

Shiner said, "I don't know, but I can guess." Sadly he examined the mutilated militia tattoo on his arms.

"Light's green," Amber said. "We can go."