“Right there’s okay, Walter,” said Middleton. “Let me know when you’re ready.” He took a notebook from his pocket and began to ask the boy some questions.

The elderly man walked down to Middleton and handed him a microphone. He backed up to the cameraman, feeding wire off a coil in his hand.

“Anytime,” said the cameraman.

“I gotta get a level on the kid,” said the man with the earphones.

“Say something,” Middleton told the boy, and he held the microphone a few inches from the boy’s mouth.

“What do you want me to say?”

“That’s good,” said the man with the earphones.

“Okay,” said Middleton. “We’ll start tight, Walter, then go to a two-shot, okay? Give me speed when you’re ready.”

The cameraman peered into the eyepiece, raised a finger, and pointed it at Middleton. “Speed,” he said.

Middleton looked at the camera and said, “We have been here on the Amity beach since early this morning, and as far as we know, no one has yet dared venture into the water. There has been no sign of the shark, but the threat still lingers. I’m standing here with Jim Prescott, a young man who has just decided to take a swim. Tell me, Jim, do you have any worries about what might be swimming out there with you?”

“No,” said the boy. “I don’t think there’s anything out there.”

“So you’re not scared.”

“No.”

“Are you a good swimmer?”

“Pretty good.”

Middleton held out his hand. “Well, good luck, Jim. Thanks for talking to us.”

The boy shook Middleton’s hand. “Yeah,” he said. “What do you want me to do now?”

“Cut!” said Middleton. “We’ll take it from the top, Walter. Just a sec.” He turned to the boy. “Don’t ask that, Jim, okay? After I thank you, just turn around and head for the water.”

“Okay,” said the boy. He was shivering, and he rubbed his arms.

“Hey, Bob,” said the cameraman. “The kid ought to dry off. He can’t look wet if he isn’t supposed to have been in the water yet.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” said Middleton. “Can you dry off, Jim?”

“Sure.” The boy jogged up to his friends and dried himself with a towel.

A voice beside Brody said, “What’s goin’ on?” It was the man from Queens.

“Television,” said Brody. “They want to film somebody swimming.”

“Oh yeah? I should of brought my suit.”

The interview was repeated, and after Middleton had thanked the boy, the boy ran into the water and began to swim.

Middleton walked back to the cameraman and said, “Keep it going, Walter. Irv, you can kill the sound. We’ll probably use this for B-roll.”

“How much do you want of this?” said the cameraman, tracking the boy as he swam.

“A hundred feet or so,” said Middleton. “But let’s stay here till he comes out. Be ready, just in case.”

Brody had become so accustomed to the far-off, barely audible hum of the Flicka’s engine that his mind no longer registered it as a sound. It was as integral a part of the beach as the wave sound. Suddenly the engine’s pitch changed from a low murmur to an urgent growl. Brody looked beyond the swimming boy and saw the boat in a tight, fast turn—nothing like the slow, ambling sweeps Hooper made in his normal patrol. He put the walkie-talkie to his mouth and said, “You see something, Hooper?” Brody saw the boat slow, then stop.