Ode to a Fish Sandwich by Rebecca M. Hale

Introduction
    FIFTEEN HUNDRED MILES southeast of Miami, on a tiny Caribbean island that time and progress forgot, a man walked into Delilah’s Beachside Diner and placed his order.
    “Hey, Winnie. I’ll take the special.”
    A stout West Indian woman looked over the plank counter, easily recognizing the relaxed vacationer. He had eaten lunch at her establishment every day for the past week.
    “Take a seat, doctor,” she replied, nodding at the picnic tables that had been pulled out onto the sand. “Burt hasn’t brought in the morning catch yet, so it’ll be a wait if you want fresh.”
    The man stretched his arms wide, grinning his capitulation. “This is my last meal on the island, Winnie, so you’d better make it good. The ferry leaves at two. I’m all yours until then.”
    “Get on with it,” she said, giving him a shrugging half-smile. “I’ll bring you a going away drink.”
    Winnie peered out her rear kitchen window, watching as Dr. Walcott Emerson Jones settled into his regular place at the table farthest from the kitchen, closest to the beach.
    The dermatologist from Utah always arrived and ate alone. Over the course of the past week, he had spent countless hours sitting in that same spot. Long after he finished each meal, he would remain at the table, silently staring out at the water.
    Those first few days, he’d looked mostly lost and forlorn, a fitting demeanor for a groom who’d just been jilted at the altar. But as the week progressed, his mood gradually improved. The island worked its healing magic, and the bright sun lightened his cloudy disposition, its curing rays reaching his soul—if not the surface of his skin.
    No matter how intense the tropical heat and humidity, the dermatologist dressed in a long-sleeved shirt, lightweight sports pants, and a floppy hat. On the few exposed areas of skin not covered by clothing, he smeared a thick layer of sunscreen. By the end of the week, his face had absorbed so much UV protectant that his cheeks were permanently chalked with a pasty white residue.
    “Skin cancer,” he’d replied when Winnie asked about his aversion to the sun. “You can never be too careful.” He’d emphasized his point with a twirl of the black umbrella he carried everywhere he went, his own mobile shade generator.
    She shook her head as the doctor selected several large stones from the beach and used them to anchor the umbrella’s handle on the top of the table. Adjusting the pile, he tilted the handle’s wooden rod so that the upper nylon webbing spread over his head.
    With a chuckle, Winnie poured rum punch into a plastic cup and set off for the propped-up umbrella at the far end of the eating area.
    “Only person I’ve ever seen come down here on vacation and leave whiter than he arrived.”
    Her second laugh shortened to a snort.
    “The man probably glows in the dark.”
    ~
    AFTER DELIVERING THE drink, Winnie shuffled back to the kitchen and started preparations for the day’s lunch service.
    Sidling up to her station, she opened a wooden drawer and reached inside for a butcher knife. She had a full set of cutlery at her disposal, but she used this hefty knife for almost every task. It was her favorite cutting tool, her go-to implement.
    To Winnie’s ears, there was no better sound than the satisfying thunk of the knife’s blade against her cutting board. She loved the way its handle pressed against the palm of her hand and how the mere flick of her wrist could generate a clean, cleaving blow. Its versatility knew no bounds. No other knife in her collection could so easily switch between dicing tomatoes and deboning a fish—or any other use that might arise.
    Gripping the trusty handle, she began running the blade over a well-worn sharpening stone. With smooth slicing motions, the steel scraped across the stone’s flat surface, each pass sliding faster and encountering less resistance.
    “The doctor’s last meal,” Winnie murmured as she studied the