So much that's not nice: napalm, nettles, nemesis, noose. Not to mention the basic no. Even the dictionary's blissful path from neck to nectar—a trembling fingertip gliding over her nipple, down around her navel—is choked by morbid vines from the intervening necro- root: -mania, -phagia, -philia. A few pages later, too fractious to define, six single-spaced columns of non-'s. N's headquarters: Nuremberg. Motto: Non possumus. Hometown heroes: Nero, Nixon, and poisonous Nessus. In algebra it nastily conceals the answer. Solve for n, says Mrs. Needle, twitching her ruler across your knuckles. And remember, ninnies: n can be anything.

Smoke a pack of Kools in the dunes. Then he'll push your hand down his swimsuit. Hold the damp cold there. Smell alewives. Then he'll do you, and that's it. Back to the campground. No talking. Coppertone, hamburgers, Frisbee. Suggest a walk on the pier to see if the fish are biting, though you couldn't care less. Too small, son. We're throwing them back. Good soldier-talk to remember for later, when someone's older brother wants payback for the rum and the storm's chasing boats to harbor like a dog after rabbits. Fish biting, kid? Too small. They're throwing them back.