Oh, Captain, My Captain Ron…

“Say, Harvey, son—you know any good pilots?”

Ben grinned.

“Actually… yes. My older sister…”

Captain Ron froze mid-gesture.

“Your sister, really?”

He leaned in a fraction.

“And you’ve been keepin’ that juicy nugget from Captain Ron?”

“What’s her name—Christine? Carly?”

“Caroline.”

“Right, Caroline,” Captain Ron said, snapping his fingers.

“She’s the one with the tattoo on her ass… San Juan Carnival, right? Wild times.”

He paused. Just a beat.

“That’s where I met Angeline…”

His grin thinned, eyes drifting somewhere past them.

“Love of my life…”

Then—just as quickly—he shook it off.

“She dumped that loser… what was his name… Armadillo?”

Ben tried not to laugh.

“No, Captain Ron—you probably meant Armando, the general. The guerrilla. The guy with the cigar.”

Captain Ron slapped his forehead.

“Aye, that’s right! Roscoe—that’s who it was.”

He snorted.

“Poor bastard ended up rottin’ in a Cuban slammer. Tried to swindle a commie general—they burned his ass good. I heard he married one of the fellas from the slammer. Somethin’ to do with soap and showers.”

Isabela walked back with coffee, giggled—then burst out laughing.

Fortunately, the coffee survived.

Ben just stared, torn between disbelief and amusement.

Captain Ron grinned.

“Maybe it wasn’t funny for Roscoe,” he said, throwing an arm around Isabela, “but damn, it’s still funny when I tell it.”

They clinked steaming mugs.