It was a calm August Morning. The flat sands had just started to warm from the rays of the rising sun. Peaceful waters lazily lapped the shoreline freshly dotted with the sun worshipers eager to soak up every drop of the magnificent day. Children frolicked on rafts while parents positioned beach chairs for optimum tanning or people watching, digging their pale toes into the white sand. As the day wore on, these countless fine grains would bake to an unbearable intensity, requiring flip-flops to protect naked feet. Such steamy yet perfectly placid days often grace the Mid-Atlantic, luring millions of hard-working Americans to its beaches where clusters of development known as resorts accommodate and entertain. Some call them tourist traps. One such place is Virginia Beach, an excellent trap indeed.

Something odd was unfolding in the heating sand. People came from up and down the beach to witness a strange spectacle. The assembled travelers, residents, and emergency personnel were gathered a round a figure dressed in white, a boy, who sat at the center of an ever-growing mass. He sat motionless, downcast, facing the glistening sea. Few details were known, except that a disturbed boy, a solitary sentinel in the center of a congregation, had the attention of a lot of people, and more were coming.

"When's it going to happen?" he muttered while brushing his teeth. Would he ever reach puberty? Of the fifty boys in his freshman class, it seemed that he and maybe one other kid were stuck in developmental neutral. He knew it would happen, but in the back of his mind he wondered if he was some sort of biological anomaly.

An air of collective excitement comes over a student body at the end of the school year. The fun and freedoms of summer — surf, ball games, camps, or just hanging out with friends — awaited the 1,247 students of First Colony Prep, where Francis had been an honor student since the first grade. Now, he looked forward to his own little summer heaven: the long days where surfing, thinking about surfing, or talking about surfing took the place of geometry and all other things scholastic. But geometry was okay with Francis for the moment because the prettiest girl in the middle school sat in the row next to him. She reminded him of that wave he dreamed of, smooth and mysteriously formed. Francis sat, floating, and watched her out of the corner of his eye.

Just one ride, he thought, with a strange calm amidst the tempest. After what seemed like only a few seconds, a glassy peak rose above the others. Francis lay flat on his board, then paddled into position to catch the wave. It was twelve feet at the face, the type of wave that could pound a grown man into the hard sand, killing him beneath tons of suffocating force.

The drawer slid open smoothly. The snub-nosed .38 and a box of shells lay at the bottom. He picked up the piece and brought it close to his face, examining it from all angles. He could feel his temples pulse as he turned the pistol this way and that, marveling at the ease and quickness with which he could point it in all directions.

The boys hunkered down along the end of the trees like hunters waiting for their prey to move into the open, both aware, however that any shooting would be suicide and their bodies would probably never be found.

"Then the wires started going crazy, dangling over my head, hissing, and I was just lying there toasted in the front yard. I know this sounds weird, but the wire seemed to talk to me, too."

Peter turned to Anne, hugged her, and shared a sip of her wine. They stood on the threshold and looked out over the garden. A breeze blew from the east, rustling the leaves of the majestic live oaks and swaying the limbs of the sea pines that shaded Annie's Garden, signaling the start of the late-summer swell. A new coolness filled the evening air, along with the distant hum of helicopters and the cry of sirens.