Clay aimed for that yellow light. Holman didn’t know what he was talking about. Sure, Clay had gotten in a few scrapes when he was little. But by second grade, he’d realized that in fights with white boys, Clay was always to blame. In fights with Mexican boys, Clay was never to blame. That’s when he’d decided to back out of scrapes.

The only time he’d fought as an adult had been against Leah’s attacker, and that was to protect, not in hot blood.

The sound of the breakers increased, and palm trees whished in the cool breeze.

Another scene blinked in his head, as persistent as the yellow light on shore. Adler and Ellen in a knot of pale flesh, the stink of booze heavy in the air.

Clay’s blood had boiled that night. He’d kicked and pummeled his brother, over and over, while Ellen scrambled under the truck, screaming her lungs out.

Thank goodness she’d screamed.

At some point, Clay had lost his balance and caught himself on Daddy’s workbench. His hand had landed on a tire iron, and he’d hoisted it overhead.

In that moment, he’d wanted Adler to hurt. In that moment, he hadn’t been innocent Joseph cast into a pit. No, in that moment, he’d been Joseph’s brothers, thirsting for vengeance.

Sweat tingled on Clay’s upper lip and his breath came hard, and not from the exertion of paddling.

Two sharp vibrations in the raft—Lieutenant Taylor’s signal to catch the next swell.

Clay shook off the memory and paddled with all he had. When the wave washed toward shore, he dropped his paddle into the boat and took his M1 Garand rifle off his back.

Rubber scraped on sand, and Clay scrambled out of the raft, swinging his rifle in an arc. No sign of patrolmen.

The other men hopped out, picked up the raft by the handles, and ran inland. At the tree line, the lieutenant joined Clay in the lead.

Clay scouted the best path through the palms and pines, avoiding the sharp palmettos that could rip a hole in the boat—and would infuriate the Navy men at the school.

On the far side of the narrow island, Clay pressed up to a palm tree. Only the sounds of the lapping waves and the distant town greeted him.

He poked his rifle and his head to the right of the tree. All clear on the beach, so he stepped out onto the sand and peered back at the trees to check for hidden patrols. Looked good.

Clay motioned the squad forward.

The men quietly carried the raft to the water’s edge and launched it.