I made it to vertical, being careful of my own butt. It was barely light out, and I had no idea how early it was or how Sol—whatever that was short for—had gotten a paper so early.
“‘Boy Arrives on Island Just in Time to Save Local Children from Vicious Attack by Fighting Dogs,’” Sol read. “This young visitor, eighteen, got off a plane at blah blah airport late Thursday. Friday morning, while walking on the beach,” and Sol read on, the story Lefty must have written. Most of the facts were right, or at least close enough, and I was glad they’d gotten my age wrong. I even felt like a man instead of a boy. Eighteen, woo hoo; I’m an adult!