Drew stopped at the tee by the twelfth hole, which was, according to the sign, a par four. He sat down on the grass, took the NuWay bag from Roger, and started spreading out a fast-food picnic. I sat down as well, dropping my flip-flops and setting down the Freddy’s cups. When Drew handed me a burger, I took it a little doubtfully.

“Thanks,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic as I looked down at it. It was smaller than I’d expected, two halves in a white and red NuWay wrapper. It looked like a hamburger that had come undone—the meat appeared loose.

“All right,” said Drew, rubbing his hands together. He gestured to the items he’d spread out on the flattened brown NuWay bags. “Now, we have tater tots, french fries, and onion rings. Ketchup, mustard, special sauce—”

“Tater tots?” Roger asked, grabbing one. “Seriously?”

“I told you NuWay was the way to go,” he said. “They’re amazing. Now, to the burgers. Do not be frightened of the crumbly. The crumbly is good.”

“I read that on the sign,” I said, clearing my throat. “But, um, why?”

“It’s what NuWay is famous for. The burgers are loose. I don’t know why. You’ll have to try to believe.”

Drew was just looking at Roger and me, waiting for us to begin. I looked down at my burger and took a bite. It wasn’t bad. The hamburger was, as advertised, crumbly—almost more like taco meat. There were onions mixed in, giving it a little kick. I squeezed out a ketchup packet on top, and took a bigger bite. It was good. I looked up at Drew and nodded, giving him the thumbs-up with my free hand.

“Told you,” he said, picking up his own burger, smiling.

“Dude,” Roger said, looking up from his burger. “Amazing.”

The burgers disappeared fast, along with the fries and tots. Feeling full and strangely peaceful, I stretched my legs out in front of me and leaned back on my elbows, looking up at the stars.

“So,” Drew said, leaning back against his arms and crossing one ankle over his bent knee, looking at Roger. “You just happened to be passing through Wichita?”

Roger glanced over at me. “Well, kind of,” he said. “We’re driving Amy’s mother’s car from California, and—”

“We’re headed to Connecticut,” I said, feeling that this would simplify things, “eventually. Heading to Kentucky after this.”

Drew sat up a little straighter. “Kentucky?” he asked, shaking his head. “Oh, man.”

“What?” asked Roger, suddenly becoming very interested in gathering up the used ketchup packets. “I’m sure it’s a fascinating state. I like bluegrass. I like fried chicken.”

“You’re going there for Hadley,” Drew said matter-of-factly. “Come on, dude. I didn’t just get here.”

“Well, so what?” Roger said, stuffing the used napkins into the NuWay bag.

“Nothing wrong with that, exactly,” Drew said, leaning back on his hands again. “A man on a quest. A Don Quixote searching for his Dulcinea.”

“Drew used to be an English major before he decided philosophy would provide better job stability,” Roger said, turning to me.

“But keep in mind, my good friend,” said Drew, “Don Quixote never found his Dulcinea, did he? He did not. There sometimes isn’t much difference between a knight’s quest and a fool’s errand.”

Roger turned to me again. “I have no idea what he’s talking about, do you?”

“Hadley never listened to you,” Drew said. “Well, she never listened to me, either, but I wasn’t dating her. I’m just saying. Think about if you really want to do this, okay?”

“Sure, Cheeks,” Roger said with the air of someone who wants the conversation to end. But I could see that his expression was a little more troubled than it had been before.

“So. Amy,” Drew said, turning to me. “What has brought you here, in the company of this foolish knave?”

I glanced over at Roger, who was now lying back on the tee, his arms folded behind his head. “It’s a long story,” I said.

“Can you give me the abridged version?” Drew asked.

“Oh,” I said, looking over to Drew, “we’re just taking a little detour.” I saw Roger smile without moving his head, which was still tipped back, looking up at the sky.

“Well, that certainly was abridged,” Drew said. “That was like Reader’s Digest abridged. That was like TV Guide synopsis abridged. Can you give me a little more?”

Before I could respond, a roaring noise came from our left, shattering the stillness of the night. I turned and saw a riding mower cresting the hill one hole over. The person riding it was a guy, wearing big, DJ-style headphones, bobbing his head along to the music as he steered erratically around the course.

“Well, what do you know,” Drew said. “Here comes Walcott.” Drew waved, and the guy on the mower saw him, nodded, and steered over to the twelfth hole. When he got close to us, he killed the engine, which made the sounds of the cicadas suddenly seem much louder than they had before. He pulled his headphones back so that they hung around his neck.

“Hey, Drew,” he said. “What’s happening?” He climbed down from the mower and leaned back against it. He was thin and wiry, with curly blond hair, and seemed much smaller now that he was no longer sitting on top of the machine.

As I looked at the massive mower, it struck me how much my father would have loved to use it. Getting to mow this whole golf course would have been his idea of heaven. As soon as I thought this, I had to struggle to get my breath back. His idea of heaven was no longer so theoretical. Was he getting to experience it now, wherever he was? Was he mowing an endless lawn somewhere, listening to Elvis? Was he happy? I shut my eyes tight. How could he be, when we weren’t there? When I wasn’t there to give him Life Savers and make sure he didn’t get lost?

I pressed my hands into the grass, struggling against the tide of feeling that threatened to pull me under. It finally subsided, but it didn’t go easily.

“This is Derek Walcott,” I faintly heard Drew saying, as though from someplace far away. “Walcott, this is Amy and this is Magellan.”

“Roger,” I heard him correct. “Hey.”

I opened my eyes, glad for the camouflage of the darkness, and lifted a hand in a wave, not trusting my voice just yet.