Mary Wolf by Cynthia D. Grant

pretty safe beach, no undertow, no sleeper waves to catch you off guard. I enter the path through the driftwood thicket and trip over a boy crawling out of a hut.
    â€œSorry. I didn’t see you.”
    â€œThat’s okay.” He stands and dusts off his knees, which poke through string where his jeans used to be.
    â€œYou live here?” I say idiotically. He’s not delivering the mail.
    â€œYeah, it’s mine. It’s got my name on it. See?”
    By the opening to the hut is a flat piece of driftwood with a word carved into it: Rocky.
    We check each other out. He’s about my age. Almost everyone else here is younger or older. Once I asked Dave where all the teenagers were. “Gone to war,” he answered vaguely. Dave’s a veteran, lame in one leg.
    The boy’s tall and skinny with pale, wild hair. The skin of his nose is roasted raw. He wears a sweatshirt with the sleeves torn off and sneakers wrapped with silver duct tape. He’s holding a battered tea kettle.
    â€œYou play that thing?” He nods at my guitar.
    â€œSort of. Do you play?”
    â€œNo, but I like music.”
    â€œMe, too. I want to be a musician. I mean, someday, if I can.”
    â€œNo kidding. That’s cool.”
    I am badly out of practice talking to people my age. He’s rusty, too. We stand there, nodding. We both start talking: No, after you.
    â€œYou been here long?” I ask.
    â€œMaybe a week. It’s okay. I been catching some fish in the river. Want some?”
    â€œNo. Not right now. I mean, thanks anyway.”
    â€œYou live around here?”
    â€œIn that big thing, you can see it from here.”
    He looks where I’m pointing. “The RV? That’s nice. It looks like it’s got lots of room.”
    â€œNot for seven people.”
    â€œMy place is pretty small but I like it,” he says. “You want to look inside?”
    â€œNo, that’s okay.”
    â€œI’ll wait outside. So you won’t feel funny. Don’t worry, I’m not a nut or something.”
    Everyone here feels obliged to let you know that even though they’re poor, they’re not crazy. My name is Mary Wolf and I’m not insane. I’m not a hopeless loser; I’m on vacation.
    â€œBy the way, my name is Mary.”
    â€œRocky.” We shake. “So do you want to see my place?” He’s busting with shy pride.
    â€œYou sure it’s okay? I don’t want to butt in or anything.”
    â€œYou’re not. Go ahead. I’ll hold your guitar.”
    I get down on my knees and crawl inside. The hut is maybe five feet wide and tall. A blue tarp covers the sand floor. A sleeping bag is spread beneath a hole in the wall that’s curtained with a scrap of clear plastic. His knapsack, patched with duct tape, is stowed beneath a driftwood shelf that holds a few paperbacks, mostly Westerns, a candle in a saucer, a frying pan, a cracked mug, a spoon and fork, a box of wooden matches and a jar of stones and shells. Sunlight pierces the walls in a few spots where the driftwood doesn’t fit snugly.
    â€œIt’s nice,” I say truthfully, inching back outside. “It’s cozy.”
    â€œI’ve fixed it up a lot. It doesn’t even leak. I put my name on it so nobody would steal it.” He hands back my guitar and holds up the tea kettle. “I was going to get some water. Make some tea. You want some? I mean, you can if you want—you don’t have to.”
    â€œMaybe in a while. I’m going down to the beach. This thing really needs new strings.”
    â€œWell, I’m going to get some water.” He walks backward, looking at me. “Maybe I’ll see you later.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œRoger,” he says. “I mean, that’s my real name. I like Rocky better. But you can call me what you want.”
    â€œRocky’s fine. It was nice meeting you.”
    He nods at me and