The next morning, I eat a continental breakfast at a sidewalk cafe. Shanklin has a lot of them, and I wander in to the first one I see. The café has wooden tables and a solitary waiter. His nametag reads “Phillip.” He has shoulder-length hair and a thick accent. I’m the only customer, and he keeps returning to my table to refill my coffee cup. Free refills are an American custom; the British charge for each cup. The next time he comes by, I ask him how much I owe.

“Bugger all,” Phillip says. He leans in closer, his hair falling forward as he whispers a question. “Want to get knackered tonight?”

I gather he’s asking me out. I nod, and we agree to meet that evening after the café closes. I count out coins to pay my bill and leave the café with no destination in mind. I know I should look for a job, but I don’t want to. The humiliation of getting fired is too fresh; surely I can take a day off.

Carrying my suitcase, I spend the day strolling on the beach. The water is a soft gray, like the color of dolphins, and the sea air wraps me in a warm embrace. Young families with freckled skin crowd the shore. Children race into the surf, splashing water on each other, and gallop back and forth like colts. The afternoon passes in a heated blur.

I meet Phillip at the café as it’s closing for the night. He motions me to leave my suitcase behind the counter. Without his waiter’s jacket, he looks rougher than I remember. When he kisses my cheek, I catch a whiff of sausage.

He starts speaking rapidly. I understand only a fraction of his words, due to his accent. His words wash over me, ending in a question. I nod yes, yes. Phillip leads me up a hill and turns onto a cobblestone road. He guides me into a pub that has a game room with a dartboard. The noise is so loud, conversation is impossible. We sit on a bench, drinking pint after pint, and throw darts that soar crazily off target.

Since I haven’t eaten, the beer goes to my head. I forget I have nowhere to stay tonight. This is the first happy moment since my arrival, and I want to draw it out. We stay past closing time. Finally the manager throws us out. The sidewalk swerves up at me, and I fall to my knees.

Phillip tugs at my arms, hoisting me to my feet.

I try to walk and fall down again. This time I lie down, pressing my cheek against the pavement. Cobblestones stamp triangular grooves on my skin. The fog rolls in, covering me in dampness.

I vomit and move to a different spot.

Phillip tries to lift me. I lash at him with my legs until he stops and lies still beside me. The night presses in for hours, or maybe minutes; then a panda car stops in front of us. Two policemen tower over me, then one barks a command. I understand I broke the law. I need to get up, but my legs have no strength.

The taller man lifts me like a paper doll and puts me in the backseat of the panda car.

Phillip is sitting there. His bloodshot eyes glow like cracked headlights. He touches my sleeve. “Luv,” he says, and starts talking at a fast clip.

I shake my head no, no. I want to be left alone. I don’t want him to touch me.

When the panda car stops, someone opens the passenger door. I lift my head and gaze outside. We’re at the café where Phillip and I met. A policeman helps me to my feet.

Phillip says, “I got ’er,” and the panda car drives away. He unlocks the front door to the café and half carries me up a flight of stairs to his rented room. He throws me on the bed and strips off my jeans.

Intercourse is over quickly. Instead of rolling off me, he twists my nipples until I shriek with pain.

When I push his hands away, he thinks I’m playing. Laughing, he sinks his teeth into my breast.

The next morning, I don’t leave. I have nowhere to go.