"My band's got a show over at Shelby's Bar and Grill in Sandy Hill tomorrow night."
Addy has a coughing fit that you recognize as their attempt to hide a laughing fit.
"We're still establishing ourselves," Barry says in all seriousness. "We could use a boost. More people in the crowd. As soon as people hear us, they'll be hooked, happens every time."
He fails to explain how, if that's so, they're still having trouble getting people to show up to their shows.
"You want us to come?" Addy asks.
"You kids know a lot of people, don't you?" he asks. "You've all got like, a thousand Internet friends or whatever, right? Tell them to spread the word. You fill out the venue a bit, and sure, we can keep talking. Favor for a favor. Show's all ages."
"I guess we'll see what we can do," you say, though this sounds like a surefire to lose whatever few friends you do have.
"What's your band's name?" Addy asks.
"Wet Dream," he says with a grin.
You wish you were surprised. Addy climbs back down into the kayak, barely suppressing their laughter.
"Hey Barry," you say before hopping back down after them.
"What?" he grumbles.
"If you believe in what they say about the fog, then why are you sleeping on your boat? What if the fog comes in while you're out here? You that confident you've confessed to every bad thing you've done?"
For an instant, that question appears to sober him up. There's a painful clarity in his eyes you don't think you've ever seen before.
"House got infested with bedbugs. Hired a guy to deal with it, but it still smells funny. Besides, who'd care if I got taken?"
You think about how to answer that, but he's got a point. Without his dad, he doesn't have anyone here who really cares about him.