The man on the jet ski carves his way up to the shore, splashing as he goes. An attendant manning the cat takes it from him as Harrison King steps off.

I'm not sure what I was expecting. I knew he was a few years older, but it's extra clear seeing him in person. He's wearing a black short-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned, board shorts underneath. His dirty-blond hair is a mess, his designer sunglasses covering half his sculpted face.

He stalks up the beach with even, purposeful strides and stops in the sand with his bare feet. He tugs off the sunglasses, surveying us with narrowed eyes. Harrison's attention cuts to...