Contents ( 66)
- Cover
- Books by Valerie Fraser Luesse
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Dedication
- Contents
- Map of Florida
- one
- two
- three
- four
- five
- six
- seven
- eight
- nine
- ten
- eleven
- twelve
- thirteen
- fourteen
- fifteen
- sixteen
- seventeen
- eighteen
- nineteen
- twenty
- twenty-one
- twenty-two
- twenty-three
- twenty-four
- twenty-five
- twenty-six
- twenty-seven
- twenty-eight
- twenty-nine
- thirty
- thirty-one
- thirty-two
- thirty-three
- thirty-four
- thirty-five
- thirty-six
- thirty-seven
- thirty-eight
- thirty-nine
- forty
- forty-one
- forty-two
- forty-three
- forty-four
- forty-five
- forty-six
- forty-seven
- forty-eight
- forty-nine
- fifty
- fifty-one
- Epilogue
- Keep Reading for a Preview of Valerie Luesse’s Next Book!
- Prologue
- one
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Back Ads
- Back Cover
A pickup truck pulled onto the beach a few yards away from Peyton’s bike, and a couple who looked somewhere in the neighborhood of sixty got out. Their engine was steaming. The man raised the hood to let the ocean breeze cool the old Ford motor, then took a water can out of the back and struck out for the bathhouses across the beach. The woman stood on the sand, watching a flock of seagulls overhead. She was wearing a dress and heels. It looked so disjointed—a woman in her Sunday best, standing on a beach filled with people in bathing suits. Apparently, something about this drivable sand compelled people who were ill prepared for the beach to venture onto it.
Soon the man returned, filled his radiator, and slammed the hood. Just like that, they were gone—empty space where people had been just moments ago.
Now a sightseeing tram was cruising by, pulled by a golf cart rigged up to look like a locomotive engine. The driver had a train whistle of sorts, which he would blow at every stop along the shore as he shouted, “All aboard!”
The train had just gone by when Peyton heard a man call out, “I can’t swim!” His cries quickly grew desperate as he called out again and again, “I can’t swim! I can’t swim!”
It took Peyton a few seconds to figure out that the cries were coming from the beach, not the waves. They belonged to the man with the rolled-up sleeves and undershirt, from the family with two kids. But where was the little boy? Peyton scanned the water around him. A few yards to his left, he spotted the child bobbing up and down in his white dress shirt. What looked like a rip current was quickly pulling him out. The boy must’ve gotten caught in it when he was playing close to shore, and it had dragged him into danger so quickly that, once his parents recognized it, they were too late to stop it.
Peyton swam toward the drowning child as hard and fast as he could, catching the boy by the collar just before a swell took them both under. Once it passed, Peyton was able to get a firmer grip, holding the child with one arm while swimming across the riptide to get them free of it. Once they made it to shallow water, Peyton ran to the beach, carrying the boy, who was completely limp, his lips pale blue.
Struggling to remember everything his dad had ever taught him about water safety, Peyton laid the child on the sand and began pressing on his chest. He remained still, but Peyton kept on until at last came the coughing and breathing. It was only then that he realized the family was kneeling on the sand around him, the mother praying out loud, her daughter clinging to her, the father staring hopelessly at his son. The minute the child was breathing again, his mother gathered him in her arms, rocking him back and forth as she knelt on the sand.