Zoey hated sand. She hated it in the way people hate crowded subway stations. Yet here she was, on a Brazilian beach fumbling with the drawstring on her denim shorts.

"This is stupid," she hissed, swatting at a mosquito the size of a golf ball.

Mo plucked a cigarette from behind his ear and lit it using a match he struck on his teeth. "It's not stupid. It's romantic."

"The hell it is," she snapped, yanking her shorts halfway down before realizing a crab had scuttled into her shoe and was now making itself at home. She threw the shoe into the dark ocean.

"Crabs are sign of good luck," Mo said, exhaling smoke in the shape of a jellyfish.

She smacked his arm. "Not everything has to be a good luck, you idiot."

Somewhere in the distance, a mariachi band began playing "Wonderwall" which made zero sense because this wasn't Mexico, and nobody in their right mind requested Oasis in the middle of the night.

Somehow, that made her even angrier. She opened her mouth to retort, but before she could, a coconut fell from the tree and landed squarely on Mo's head with a hollow thunk. He slumped over, unconscious, cigarette still dangling from his lips.

"Of course," Zoey muttered, kicking his limp body lightly to make sure he wasn't dead. "Typical."

She glanced around, unsure what to do. The mariachi band had stopped playing and was now staring at her, their sombreros glowing faintly under the moonlight. One of them waved a hand. "Do you need un médico?"

"No," Zoey called back. "But I could use a drink." A bottle of tequila washed up on the shore, corked and inexplicably cold. Zoey sighed, cracked it open, and took a long swig.

When Mo finally woke up, groaning and rubbing his head, he looked at her with bleary eyes. "Did we do it?" he asked.

Zoey stared at him, the tequila bottle dangling from her hand. "No, but a mariachi band judged me instead."