“What’s so special about you?” he said gently. “Who are you, White Beak?”

There was only one way to find out.

Rather than place the sketchbook back in the shoebox, Rio gently cut away the main picture of White Beak and tucked it inside his shorts pocket. It was a chain to his mother—one that covered time and space—and, in some strange, unexpected way, was surprisingly comforting.

Then he rushed down the stairs and through the kitchen. So fast, he barely had time to acknowledge Fran on his way out of the back door, where the bright Californian sun reflected off the surface of the ocean in a million different shards of light.

Kicking off his sneakers, he ran across the warm sand toward the shoreline, which was empty save for a couple of teenage girls carrying surfboards. Here the sound of the ocean drowned out everything—including his own thoughts. A rolling, thundering pounding that filled his ears, followed by a clawing, gnashing sucking sound as the waves were dragged back out.

Rio stared at a limitless horizon, where there was nothing but rolling blue waves and the occasional white gull skimming the surface of the sea. He let out the breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding. Because today it wasn’t just an ocean. A vast blue plain of shimmering water. It was also home to his mom’s whale.

He scanned the horizon left to right and then back again. He wasn’t daft. He didn’t expect to see a whale suddenly leap out of the water in front of his eyes, let alone see White Beak. For all he knew, the whale was long dead. Yet the sheer raw desire to see one was so strong that he stared and stared and stared until his eyes smarted.

But as hard as he looked, the water stayed calm.

Until . . .

CRASH.

SPLAT.

BOOM.

A large wave came from nowhere, smacking him in the chest with a hard thud, and sent him tumbling facedown into the water.

“Aaaargghhh!”

When Rio finally found his feet again, his shorts sodden and his mouth full of wet, gritty sand, his first instinct was to check his pockets for his mom’s drawing.

“No,” he muttered. “Please no!”

But the drawing was gone. A hard, horrible panic gripped hold as he dropped to his knees and gazed frantically around him.

He couldn’t have lost it. Not already!

His fingers scraped through the sand, bumping against various shells and pebbles. But it was useless. It could be anywhere. And even if he did find it, it would be ruined.

He let out a strangled cry.

That’s when he heard a faint skittering noise.

Ten yards behind him was a girl about his own age, with tangled blond hair that looked like it hadn’t been brushed since birth. The sunlight glinted off her face and gave it a shiny, luminous tint that glowed with the sheen of outdoors.

The girl didn’t say anything.

Instead, she just held out her hand. And there, wondrously, miraculously, was his mom’s picture, neatly folded up into squares—just as Rio had left it. He barely managed to stop himself from snatching it from her grasp.