perfect? or wrong timing? you be the judge.

TW: DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE, BLOOD, GORE. VIEWERS DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

JOHN B SQUINTS AS HE LOOKS AT THE UNDERWATER CAMERA. Tapping the lens with his pruny pointer finger, he starts to make funny faces as Pope watches above from the surface.

"What's this right here?" JJ points out, almost touching a button without knowing what it does.

Pope quickly slaps his hand away, scolding him "Don't touch that. I'm trying to work out this thing."

Just as John B pulls away to get a breath of air, two pairs of legs dangle above the footage. Kiara and Martha can be seen on the small screen, waving and smiling at the drone. Their scantily-clad bathing suits turned on the two eyeing boys up on the deck.

"God bless geeks, Pope. Truly, man." JJ mumbles as he watches Martha make her way back up to the surface. Her pink bandeau bikini entices him to dive in after her. "What would we do without you to control the drones?"

"Well, technically it's not a drone. It's an ROV," Pope points out, his eyes on the computer screen the whole time.

"Shut up. Shut up, it's too early for that right now," he quickly dismissed his brainy friend, looking back down to his girl swimming in the blue water. He winks at her and she smiles back, paddling over to the metal ladder as John B calls from behind her.

"Hey, look, once we get footage of the wreck, we'll bring it to a lawyer in town and file a formal claim," John B states like it was basic knowledge.

"It's such bullshit," JJ whines, looking back over his left shoulder just as Marty was climbing out. He didn't want to be caught staring. "Why do we have to do that?"

"Well, there is maritime salvage law," she answers him, grabbing her towel off the wooden beam. Water drips onto the deck, slightly splashing JJ's feet as he is wearing flip-flops. Her teeth chatter as the wind sends chills throughout her body, the warm towel quickly diminishing its heat in the shadows. "Y-You can't just go to the ocean floor and—and scoop a bunch of stuff up."

JJ grins, turning around and pulling her into the sun. "I know. I know, smarty-pants. It's just that lawyers aren't cheap, you know?" He continues, his head falling as he toys nervously with his rings. Marty nods, kissing his shoulder, and leans on his right forearm. Her hair is wet and mushy, but he doesn't care.

"Well, as soon as they see the footage, they'll work for a comp," John B adds, his arms splashing the water as he keeps himself afloat.

"How do you know all of that?" Kiara asks, shaking her head in amusement.

"Cause, my dad said it, like, a million times."

"Yeah, that's fair," she replies out of breath as she swims to the base of the ladder, regaining her strength.

"This tether is, like, really long," Pope says, standing up and leaning over on the beam where JJ and Martha are. "In the wrong weather, this thing could get pushed around."

"Then we'll go at dead calm," John B says, looking up to the sky just as the faint rumbling of thunder can be heard.

"So now, we just gotta wait around for the right weather," Pope concludes, walking to the edge of the gazebo overhang. "And today is not that day."

➵ ➵ ➵

"Y'ALL GET THESE GROCERIES OVER TO FIGURE EIGHT," Mr. Heyward says, grabbing two plastic bags of store-bought food and handing them to his son. "Get straight back here when you're done. No fishin'."

Pope grabs the bags, placing them on the starboard table that Martha is overlooking, making sure none of the food falls.

"I promised delivery by this afternoon," he continues, turning back around and bending over to grab some more. "Rich folks don't wanna wait for you lazy sons of..." Martha stifles a giggle as she watches JJ hold out his grabby hands. Heyward Sr. sarcastically cooed at the blond teenager. "Oh, JJ, thank you... sons of bitches."

"'Cept you, Martha," Heyward says, his southern accent thick and full. "You can smack 'em across the head if they ain't doin' what they're supposed to be doin'."

"I'll keep that in mind, Mr. Heyward, thank you," she grins, feeling a bit embarrassed as JJ places down the bags of vegetables and immediately hugs her from behind. His head dipping into her neck, the unfamiliar display of affection causing her cheeks to flush as Heyward's eyebrows squirm. "Well I'll be damned, you look just like your ma' back in high school. Lola always had a Maybank wrapped around her finger, too."

Pope starts the engine, not hearing what his father just dropped.

JJ peaks his head from Marty's neck, his eyes automatically meet the hazel ones he's grown so fond of. "Wait, what?" He pulls away, her body shivering from the harsh breeze. Even if they were in the sun, JJ is the thing that gives her body warmth.

"Shit," Mr. Heyward mumbles under his breath, his fingers quickly taking off the rope and chucking it onto the white deck. "Better get going now! Those kooks aren't going to feed themselves!"

"Heyward! You can't just drop a bomb like that and not explain!" JJ tries to yell over the loud ass engine, but it's no use.

"Yes, I can! Good-bye, now!" He yells, slapping the side of the boat, signaling to his son that he can go. Pope pulls away from the dock, listening to the solar-powered radio as a Childish Gambino song begins to play from its speakers.

The sudden rockiness of the waves startles Marty from her shock. Blinking out of it, she quickly races to the edge of the boat, "Mr. Heyward!"

"Say hello to your mom for me!" He yells, showing off an obviously fake smile, waving goodbye to the surprised couple.

➵ ➵ ➵

"DOESN'T EVEN LOOK LIKE THE STORM HIT THERE," Pope says, looking past the blond pogue and brunette touron and eyeing a mansion surrounded by palm trees.

JJ is manspreading on the edge of the dashboard, his eyes watching Martha, who is between his legs, trace cursive letters on the palms on his hand. The couple calmed down a little after Mr. Heyward dropped a massive bomb about their parents' interconnecting lives. Yes, it was a little bit weird, and uncomfortable to know about at first, but they both really, really like each other and nothing is going to change that any time soon.

Martha raises her eyebrows as she looks over to where Pope was talking about. It wasn't any ol' mansion, it was Sarah Cameron's house.

"That's because they got generators, bro. Get used to it," JJ says, noise from the machines penetrating the boat's walls and into the trio's eardrums. "And then they say the juice will be out all summer at the cut." He grits his teeth, angry seeping through his bones.

"It's nice to be a Kook," Pope sasses, his eyes clouding green in jealous spite.

Martha bites her bottom lip as she begins to twist and spin JJ's metalloid band around his ring finger. My dad found spare generators in the storm bunker. God, I shouldn't feel guilty. I'm not a kook, but to them, I still might be.

"Lucky bastards," JJ mumbles, putting the end of his sunglasses into his mouth.

➵ ➵ ➵

"MAN, THAT PARTY WAS INSANE!" Topper chuckles as he raves about his time last night to his best friend. Rafe laughs along with him, his head tilting back slightly as coke-blurry memories cloud his brain, twirling his golf club in a circular motion.

"I mean, my first thought when I did the line was..." Rafe throws out the tiny golf ball, his shoes crunching the dirt and sand particles on the dune. "...Bro, do we have enough? It was crazy."

"Yeah," Rafe smirks, looking onward at the Oakland Inn golf course laid out in front of him. "That was some good shit." He sidesteps, placing his feet in the swinging stance, contemplating the trajectory of his hit.

"Hey, you uh..." Topper speaks up, leaning on his golf club like it was a walking stick. "You didn't tell Sarah, did you?"

"Are you kidding me, man? The way she runs her mouth? Hell no," Rafe retorts, his voice low as he tries to focus on his swing. A small silence is shared between the pair as he swings his club, the sole chipping away a chunk of dunes. The ball flies through the air, landing on the green some hundred feet away.

Some old men start to yell at the rowdy boys, but Rafe yells at them to "shut the fuck up!" Which they do.

"We shouldn't be taking so long, anyway," Rafe mumbles, holding out the gold club to Topper but yanks it back as he spots some "trespassers" treading along the path. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he nods to whoever is over Top's shoulder. "I don't think they're members do you?"

Topper's jaw clenches as he realizes who is coming up the path: Martha Holland and Pope Heyward. "It's fine, just— just let them go. All right, let's uh..." he pushes Rafe back a little but it's no use. And he knows it. "Let's go get your ball. Come on."

"So you're not getting a piece?" Rafe asks, referring back to the conversation they had earlier this week. "This is your chance man, get payback. She literally owes you a new ballsack."

"No, that's fine. It's fine. Let it go."

"And she owes me an apology," Rafe nods, ignoring his friend's pleas, and marches over to where Marty and Pope were chatting.

"Perfect timing!" Rafe shouts, raising his arms in a patronizing greeting. "I was just talking about you!"

"Oh, you gotta be shitting me," Martha mumbles, heaving up the plastic bags in her sweaty grip. Both Pope and herself stop dead in their tracks, like deers in headlights, they look at each other and simply turn back around.

"Wrong timing, actually! We gotta go!" Pope calls out behind him, he can sense Martha visibly shut down in fear.

'Hey, cunt!" Rafe shouts again, startling the pair in their places. Topper makes his way over to them, cornering the two from escaping back to the boat.

"Don't you call her that," Pope defends, turning around, almost angry enough to spit.

"Hey, uh, where's that blond bitch you have pussy-whipped? Are you fucking this one too?" Rafe edges on, Martha's face still turned away from him. She bites her lip in fear, so hard it almost bleeds. Clutching the plastic bag so thin that it's sending daggers into her palm. "Hey, how much for one of those beers?" Rafe pesters, his clubhead tapping on the case of beer in Pope's arm.

"They're not for sale," Pope sighs, nudging on Martha's shoulder to come with, which she does. She's not going to leave him there.

"Oh, wait, wait, wait," Rafe antagonizes, pushing Pope back with his iron club. "You can just give us one, then, right?"

"Or you can order one, like everybody else," Pope remarks, tired of this shit already.

"Listen," Rafe pats Pope on the chest, slightly pushing him back. "Wait, wait. You're not listening to me. Um. You've got so many, bro, and we've got nothing."

"They're not even mine," Pope reasons, sidestepping to protect Martha's vulnerability. "They're already paid for, okay."

"Already paid for?" Rafe mumbles, dipping his head low and rummaging through the bag anyway.

"Get your dirty ass fingers out of the bag," Martha comments, surprising everyone there.

"Oh, and the whore finally speaks," Rafe jeers, tilting up his head to look at Marty's teary-red eyes.

"Shut up, man! Leave her alone," Pope grits, not noticing Rafe sliding the toe of the golf club into his bag.

"Oh, and you probably stole these, right?" Rafe questions, ripping back the golf shaft and tearing a hole in the fragile bag, causing all the supplies, food, and drinks onto the hot and sticky sand.

"What the hell?!" Pope yells, looking down to the shattered jar of pickles laying aimlessly on the sand. "You owe me for that!" He yells again, pointing to Rafe as the banished kook swings his golf club and whacks the bag out of his hand.

"Dude, I don't owe you, shit, pogue," Rafe spits down at Pope before turning towards Martha. His chest puffed up as he craned his neck, towering over the scared girl. "But you know who owes me somethin'? You. An apology. Now."

"Never in a million years," Martha scoffs, putting on a brave show, although on the inside her mind is blank, with one phrase projected on a reel: This is where he rapes me again. Brace yourself.

"Wrong answer," he shrugs, plastering an evil grin on his face as he swings his club, aiming for the bags in her hand. She lets out a startling cry as it nips her wrist, completely shattering her carpal bones.

"What the fuck?!" She yells, holding her left wrist, her skin badly bruising and bleeding from the forceful hit. "Just leave us alone! We haven't done anything to you!"

"Just keep, you're fucking mouth shut!" Rafe yells back, happily spinning the bloody club like a baton-twirler at a parade. He makes his way over to Pope, who was fighting Topper for possession of the case of beer.

"Hey! Come on, man! We just want one of these beers! Just give us one of these—" Topper tells Pope, struggling to grab the case out of his hands.

"You guys are freaking crazy!" Pope yells, pulling back on the box when Topper spins him around and Pope's head lands on a rock.

"Pope!" Martha runs to his fallen side. The poor kid was holding his head in pain, red blood smearing on his hands. "What the hell, Topper?!" Marty yells, looking up to her best friend's brother.

"Shit, Martha, I'm sorry, man. My bad."

Martha feels the sand shift quickly, Pope stands up, wobbling for a split-second as he tries to punch Topper back. "Pope, no!" She yells, watching in horror as Rafe hits him in the stomach, causing her friend to bend over and wail, considering the wind got knocked out of him. Martha stands up quickly, rushing over to Pope to shield him from one last blow.

This is my fault. If I hadn't antagonized Rafe, Pope wouldn't be hurt. This is my fault, I'll pay.

"Stop!" She yells, but it's no use. Rafe roars as he slashes her across the face. Her left eyebrow, cheekbone, top lip cut open in one single motion. Pope falls, taking Martha with him, her vision blurry as he hears Topper yelling at Rafe to calm down.

"Stay down, bitch!" Rafe laughs, leaning over the girl as he throws the club down, inches away from her head. His breath is heavy as he kneels, his padded glove tapping her face. She tries to squirm away from his touch, but she thinks she has a concussion. She grabs Pope's arm, holding him back from doing anything else.

"I love seeing you whimpering, it reminds me of the first day we met. Do you remember that night?" He whispers, watching the salty tears stream down her face and into the sand. He turns over to Pope, telling him: "we don't want you over here. Got that? Stay off Figure Eight, Pogue."

Martha can sense Topper hesitating to leave with Rafe, he slips out a soft apology as he runs away. Squinting, blood dripping down her face, she could feel the heat start to dry some of it from the sun. She hears Pope right next to her, crying, gurgling some blood in his mouth.

"Pope? You alive?" She whispers, her wrist becoming numb. Her adrenaline is kicking in.

"No," he mumbles, spitting out his blood. "You?"

"No," she scoffs, "I think my wrist is broken. Do you think we're still getting paid?"

"Fuck, no."