The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned. He knew very well that his muscles were flabby, and his nerve by no means what it should be. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. They are long gone.
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