It is midnight and Travis stands in front of a cigarette machine buying a pack for his father. As he puts the coins into the slot, he looks at the picture of brightly tinted palm trees along a sandy beach facing him. The hotel restaurant is empty, except for two couples at a nearby table. The maître d' sits with them, talking in a hushed voice that makes them all snicker and look over at Travis. His father doesn’t even notice, just holds up two fingers for the check when he has finished his espresso and after-dinner cigarette.

Travis’ father always wears a jacket to dinner, calls the waitresses by their first names. Wherever they stay, even if it’s only for one night, everyone will know his father’s name, the people working behind the desk coming out to say goodbye when they leave. His father has been everywhere. He bought Travis a world atlas for his tenth birthday two years ago and Travis marked all the capital cities his father had visited. Almost all of Asia was filled up immediately. The shelf above his bed is covered with gifts from his father’s trips: a marble fisherman from Saigon; a red Mao book from Shanghai; Lenin cufflinks from Moscow.

The check is immediately brought over, and his father hands the waiter his credit card without even looking at it. The company is paying for everything; otherwise he would have gone over it carefully, pulling out a paper-thin calculator from his wallet. They go upstairs to their room and Travis brushes his teeth, changes into pajamas. His father strips down to his boxers, and pours bourbon over ice cubes. He sets the bottle and the ice bucket on the small table that separates their beds, spreads out the paper, and turns on the television. Travis falls asleep looking at him.

In the morning, Travis wakes up to find some money at the end of his bed and a note. His father has a meeting and he’ll be back in the room at 11:00. "Don’t forget to take a shower," it ends. Travis has a bath instead, after making himself a cup of coffee. He pours out a packet of instant coffee into a cup, mixing it with powdered milk and sugar. He drinks all of it, even though it tastes disgusting, and checks his face for any sign of hair. There is nothing. He fills up the tub, almost to the top, so that water gurgles into the drainage hole when he gets in.

Now that Travis is old enough to be alone for most of the day, his father can bring him along on business trips. He has been to almost every state, including Hawaii. But this is his first time traveling outside of the U.S. They’ve been up north to Blackpool for a convention, and Nottingham for more meetings and now they are in London. In two days it will be Christmas.

Travis gets out of the tub and wraps a towel around his middle, like his father does. He looks out the window at the traffic below. Motorcycles and small cars — some with only three wheels — dart around red double-decker buses, black taxi cabs. He gets dressed and goes downstairs to the restaurant, bringing the newspaper with him. After ordering pancakes and more coffee, he looks at the pictures on the front page of the paper, reads every story in the sports section, glancing at tonight’s TV. "Thanks Rachel," he says to the waitress when she brings him his breakfast. She just looks at him like she can’t understand what he is saying.

Travis is sitting on the bed watching a talk show when his father comes back from his meeting. The room quickly fills with his smell, a mixture of shaving cream and Brut deodorant. His father’s face always lights up when he sees Travis, like it’s been years instead of a few hours. They are going to Brighton where they will spend Christmas and they have to pack before catching a train. His father carefully folds his shirts and trousers into a compact suitcase and is ready before Travis has finished stuffing everything into his backpack. Cradling the phone in his neck, his father orders a cab and lights a cigarette, then smoothes out his shirt in the large mirror above the desk. Downstairs, the manager gives his father a discount coupon for a future visit, while Travis stands with their bags.

The cab is waiting for them outside and they drive along the river, past holiday work parties, everyone wearing a paper crown on their head. They cross over Vauxhall Bridge, the gray Thames lapping below. Victoria Station is busy with holiday travelers rushing to catch trains, buy last minute presents in the stores, stepping around people sleeping wrapped in blankets near the toilets. A lone Christmas tree stands in the middle of the station. His father buys the tickets and Travis watches the Arrivals and Departures board, the letters and numbers flipping over. The train isn’t due in for another fifteen minutes so they head over to a café.

Travis takes a sip of a lukewarm Coke and shifts in his chair, and his father stirs his coffee. Sometimes Travis’s father just looks at him and doesn’t say anything. "How was your meeting," Travis asks after awhile. His father says it was fine and looks past Travis, then checks his watch, and pulls out his cigarette. "You’ll find something better to do for a living than I have," he smiles and stands up, signaling that it is time to go for the train.

Travis looks out the window as they alternate passing through grim suburbs and meandering, brown hills dotted with sheep. "We should call your mother when we get there," his father says, looking up from his paper. Travis pictures his mother walking up and down their apartment carrying his baby sister, trying to stop her crying. Two months ago, just before the baby was born, her boyfriend moved in with them, and his suitcases still crowd their tiny living room. "England is the best place in the world for Christmas," his father told him. But Travis had already overheard his mother telling his father that she needed a break from him during the holidays, so they could "get the baby settled."

The train station in Brighton has no walls, only a high ceiling, and is filled with the sounds of Christmas music and the beating of pigeon wings. They take another cab to the hotel. His father is rushing to get to his next meeting and gives Travis a map of Brighton. On the back, he has written down directions to the home of the UK regional director of his company where they are going for dinner tonight, telling Travis to go look at the pier. "It’s famous," he says. "We’ll call your mother later."

After his father leaves, Travis changes into a plain black, long-sleeved cotton shirt that he always wears to explore new places. When they were in Blackpool, he stumbled upon a large group of people watching the circus pack up and leave town. The best part was when the lions, five snarling females, were transferred from their cages into a trailer. Men stood on top of the cages, herding them with their gloved hands and wooden poles, and it seemed like at any moment they would lose control and the lions would leap onto the crowd. His father scheduled all his meetings for the morning in London, so he could show Travis around. In two days, they went to everything worth seeing, his father said.

Travis spreads out the map of Brighton on his bed. The hotel is only a few blocks from the pier. He goes outside and walks through narrow streets lined with stores selling used books, antique jewelry, local artists’ paintings. He walks past a children’s clothing store and decides to get something for his baby sister. All his mother ever does now is sit in the rocking chair that her boyfriend assembled the night they came home from the hospital, while she nurses the baby and cries. When Travis comes home from school his mother will still be in her sweatpants and T-shirt, the same thing she was wearing when he left in the morning. And she has gotten infections three times already, because the baby has trouble "latching on," he has heard her telling her friends on the phone. The baby is not gaining enough, and they keep having to go to the doctor to get her weighed.

Right before the baby was born Travis was in a school play for the first time. His mother had helped him rehearse his part, figuring out how many lines he needed to memorize each day. But the night of the performance, the doctor said she needed to stay in bed, so her boyfriend videotaped it for her. When they got home, her boyfriend carried the TV into her room and they crowded onto the bed to watch Travis on stage, slightly out of focus.

Travis looks through the onesies and baby shoes, but only has five pounds left, so he buys a plastic crab rattle instead. He asks the woman behind the counter to wrap it up for him, and chooses a purple ribbon, his mother’s favorite color. Clutching the present, he walks down to the pier that sticks out from the stony beach. "Palace Pier," a huge arch announces in red light bulbs. It is filled with an amusement arcade, food stalls, even some rides and a roller coaster on the end. Farther down the beach is another pier that is completely decrepit with two abandoned buildings on it. Large white clouds spackle the sky.

Travis heads straight for the arcade. Just inside, two men are trying to win a stuffed animal, pounding on the machine each time they fail. Except for a group of boys playing a Jurassic Park video game, the place is empty. Next door to the arcade is a bar, and Travis follows right behind a couple going in. Cigarette smoke hangs down from the ceiling like a fog. There is no music playing, only the murmur of conversations from the few people scattered around the small tables. "You can have a Coke, nothing else," the bartender says to Travis, looking him up and down, filling up a glass. Travis hands over the last of his change, and goes to sit near the door.

Travis has always liked the smell of bars, the mixture of smoke and stale beer. When he was younger, his mother used to bring him along on dates if she couldn’t find someone to look after him. Travis would sit in a cocktail lounge, doing a word game book in the corner of the booth, while his mother laughed at different men’s jokes.

Travis lingers over his drink until the bartender comes over. "You better get going, son," he says to Travis, snatching the glass away. It is almost dark now, and Travis follows his father’s directions to the regional director’s house. The old pier is just across the street. Yellow police tape blocks the entrance and a sign says "Danger — Keep Off." Travis looks at the gaping holes in the walkway that connects a former concert hall to a pavilion out on the tip. Then he heads towards the house.

A tall woman answers the door wearing a tight black dress that is so low-cut Travis can see everything. "You must be Travis," she says. "I’m Julie." She is much younger than Travis imagined a regional director would be. His father stretched out on the couch, calls out, "Hey little man," a dent in the leather sofa next to him where Julie must have been. A large Christmas tree smothered in lights is by sliding glass doors leading out to a back deck. "Did you have a good afternoon?" his father asks, his shirt pulled out of his pants.

Travis nods and turns away while his father tucks it back in.

Julie is yelling, "Boys," and then suddenly twins appear, one slightly larger than the other. Even though they must be his age, they don’t say anything to Travis, just sit down, and wait for their mother to bring them their dinner. Julie rushes in and out of the kitchen, serving overdone meat and boiled, flavorless vegetables. They eat quietly and as soon as they are finished, she is clearing the plates away. "Why don’t you show Travis the arcade in the pier," she says. "And there’s a fireworks show later, as well." The twins grimace, but get their coats before Travis can explain that he has already been there. "Have fun," his father says, winking at him.

They walk along the beach and the twins talk only amongst themselves. Travis trails behind them. It is raining lightly, almost like someone is spraying them with a plant mister. The pier is all lit up now, and packed with people. When they get inside the arcade, the twins rush over to the only vacant game with guns. Travis finds a pinball machine and plays a few rounds by himself before wandering outside to look at the ocean. The green swelling waves pound against the wooden pilings below while a couple makes out ferociously on a bench. Travis watches both things for awhile and then goes back inside.

The twins are about to leave. "We have to be somewhere," they say, looking annoyed that he has found them. Travis has to walk quickly to keep up with them as they go down two side streets to a small, attached house with a red front door. A girl lets them in, leading them down a narrow hallway to her room, slamming the door shut. "We had to bring him," the smaller twin says. "He’s American." The girl looks at Travis once, but then ignores him. Her room is covered with posters of bands Travis doesn’t recognize. The larger twin sits on the bed next to the girl, Travis and the other one on the floor. No one takes their coat off. She pulls out a bottle of Wild Turkey from under her bed and passes it around. They all take quick swigs, not saying anything. The girl puts on a tape, turning it up loud.

Travis is studying the rug, when the larger twin starts kissing the girl. The other twin and Travis hand the bottle back and forth, not looking at each other. There is a picture of her with two girls framed on top of her bookshelf, all wearing miniskirts and singing into a microphone. She is the prettiest girl in the picture, and Travis realizes that she might be the prettiest girl he has ever seen, not counting movies or television.

"You can have a turn if you want to," she says to Travis when she is finished with the large twin. One of his legs has fallen asleep and he stumbles slightly when he stands up. The twins laugh at him. Travis sits down on the bed, and takes off his jacket, while the girl watches him. She hands him the bottle, he drinks from it and gives it back to her, and then she is kissing him. Travis has only kissed one other girl before, this past summer on the last night of camp. The whiskey makes his cheeks feel hot as he tries to concentrate on her lips, and then suddenly her tongue is in his mouth, wrapping around his, sliding along his teeth. She slowly leans him back onto her pillows. Travis forgets all about the twins until he hears one of them saying: "he’s having too long." They stop for a moment and she is shouting at them to get out or she’ll scream for her older brother. Then Travis hears them leaving the room, the door closing behind them.

The girl lies on top of Travis, pressing into his groin, her hand reaching up his shirt. He doesn’t know how long they have been kissing, when she offers to take her shirt off. "I’ve never kissed an American before," she says sitting up, pulling her T-shirt over her head, unsnapping her bra. Travis doesn’t want to tell her that he’s never kissed anyone for this long before, his experience limited to five rushed minutes behind an outhouse. It is the first time he has seen breasts this close-up, and he timidly touches them, and then she is back on top of him. Scenes from movies blur in his head. He has forgotten about everything else in the whole world except for her tongue and her lips which are leading his, her body slowly grinding into his, when there is pounding on the door. "Sophie," a boy’s voice is shouting, "we have to meet Dad for the fireworks."

She stops and pulls away from Travis. "Fucking hell," she says, rolling off him, reaching for her shirt. Travis just lies there looking at her, as she dresses and quickly brushes her hair. "Come on," she says. "He’ll kill me if we’re late."

Travis feels like he is going to fall over when he gets up, but he manages to make his way down the hallway where the twins are waiting, still wearing their coats. Sophie’s brother towers over them, a long scar dominates his left cheek. The twins won’t look at Travis, and he tries to keep from smiling as Sophie’s brother moves his eyebrows up and down. "You lovebirds ready?" he says, and Sophie punches him, he grabs her arm and twists it around.

Outside it is raining and their street is filled with people streaming towards the sea front, some are even running, and Travis can hear sirens in the distance. "All this for the crappy fireworks show?" the smaller twin says. Sophie’s brother asks someone what is happening. "The old pier has collapsed," the man says.

"I always said that pier would fall down, " says a woman walking next to him, her face tightening.

"You never said anything like it in your life," the man snaps at her.

Sophie’s brother leads them through the crowd, his ginger hair just visible above everyone’s heads. Travis walks past two young children holding their mother’s hands, whining over and over "it’s too far, it’s too cold," two older ones skipping arm in arm, singing the same song that Travis has heard everywhere he’s been in England. As they get closer to the beach, it is so busy they have to stop and wait for everyone to move forward. Sophie’s brother and the twins start singing English football songs, and soon other people are joining in. And then they are crossing over the main road, Travis carried along with the crowd.

The beach is swarming with people in raincoats trying to salvage pieces of wood from the pier that have already washed ashore. Groups of teenagers jostle in tight circles and children are running around, throwing rocks into the waves. Police boats surround the old pier, their lights illuminating the crumpled structure. The middle walkway is completely gone, and half of the concert hall hangs down over the water at a sharp angle, threatening to slide away at any moment.

Sophie’s brother goes off with a group of his friends who are setting off bottle rockets into the sea, telling Sophie to meet him by the arcade in fifteen minutes. The twins have disappeared but Sophie is still next to Travis and they walk down to the edge of the water. Waves crash against the broken pilings. Someone starts to swim out towards the pier, but the cops pull him out of the water.

"What’s your name," Sophie turns towards him. It is raining harder now, their hair completely soaked.

"Travis," he says, the first word he has uttered in hours. Sophie smiles, the rain pelting her upturned face. She waits for him to speak again. Travis can’t think of anything else to say to her, but it is a small, good feeling to be with a pretty girl on a wet, winter evening.

Behind Sophie, Travis sees the regional director’s house. All the lights are out, except for the ones on the Christmas tree, blinking off and on. Somewhere inside is Travis’ father. They will have Christmas alone in their hotel room, and then it will be time to fly home. When they land in Baltimore, his father will be rushing to catch a connecting flight, so Travis will say goodbye to him at the gate. They will see each other again at Easter. A flight attendant will bring him to his mother’s boyfriend, waiting in baggage claim.

Sophie grabs Travis’ hands and puts them inside her coat pockets, pulling him closer. Charcoal waves swirl around their shoes. On the beach, police try to maintain control of the growing crowd, news cameras are everywhere, and dogs leap through the debris. Sophie rests her head on Travis’ shoulder, her warm breath on his neck. They are two bodies pressed together, a temporary islet amongst the turbulent throng.