I’m about to write it off as a bird when I see movement in the water.

I shoot up to my feet when I realize it’s a person. A kid. Caught in the powerful current, he’s coming straight for me.

“Oh, shit.” The cuss word slips from my mouth without thought. It’s exactly what my mom says when she realizes she forgot to switch the wet laundry to the dryer before it got musty.

When I see he’s going to miss the dock by a few feet, I think fast and grab my fishing pole. Lying flat on my stomach, I extend it out to the water. “Grab on!”

His hands grope wildly, and I think he’s going to miss it, but just as he’s about to rush past, his fingers close around the end.

“Don’t let go,” I say, holding tight to the plastic while scooting away from the edge.

If I get pulled in with him, we’re both toast. My parents have warned me many times about not getting in the creek when I’m alone, no matter how shallow it is. The only reason I’m allowed to come out here by myself is because I promised I wouldn’t. That, and the fact that they know they can’t keep me away. But seriously, what would be the point of owning twenty acres of nature if you’re never going to enjoy it?

The boy is close enough to the dock to reach it, but he doesn’t. I wonder if he’s in shock. It’s March in Wisconsin. The temperature of the water has to be forty degrees or lower.

“There’s a ladder in front of you. Right there, on the side,” I tell him, then nod encouragingly when his hand lands on the weathered wood. “Yeah. Climb up.”

I shed my jacket and my hat, ready to give it to the soaked kid. But as he rolls onto his back, panting and exhausted, I realize he’s not a little boy. He’s probably my age.

And so freaking beautiful.

It’s like time stops as I look at him.

His light brown hair is plastered to his forehead and cheeks, and his dark eyelashes glisten in the sunlight. His skin is perfection, not a freckle or a blemish on his gorgeous face. Lips the color of my mom’s prized pink roses are parted as he breathes.

The thin button-up shirt is molded to his body, and although most pre-teen boys don’t have much muscle definition, he does. He’s wearing loose-fitting khaki pants, and I wonder if he was at church earlier. I doubt it, though. There’s only one church in this small town, and there’s no way I would’ve missed him. New people stick out like a sore thumb around here, especially if they look like movie stars.

Maybe his family just moved to Ivesdale.