“Marsh Harbor will take you in his runabout, sir.”
The skinny boy looked no more than twelve, and made younger by the eagerness of expression.
“I don’t want to be a bother,” I said.
“I am an excellent driver, sir,” said the boy. “The best on the Cay.”
The car was a right-hand drive Austin Moke of considerable antiquity. I wedged myself into the passenger seat. The boy gunned it, spraying a fantail of sand behind us.
“Your name is Marsh Harbor?” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Like the town?”
“I was named after it, sir. You are from Miami?”
“No. I’ve been there, though”
He grinned. “All my life, I have longed to go to Miami. I have never left Green Turtle Cay.”
“Not even to Nassau?”
“No sir. My grandmother forbids it. She says Nassau is a place of sin.”
“But not Miami.”
“No sir. Miami is the New World.”