Connie climbed from the car, armed with stale coffee and staler donuts. She found the note she’d left, crumpled it, and looked toward that distant, unreachable shore.

Thin trails of black smoke rose from several spots around that second, barely visible marina. In the distance, off to the south, a larger pillar of smoke rose, an ominous sight.

She walked into the marina and out onto the dock to get a closer look, wishing she had a boat to take her closer still.

“All hell broke loose over there last night.”

Connie spun and faced a tall man, slightly stooped, older, with white hair and a weathered face.

“What do you mean?”

The man nodded toward the distant shore. “I been watching since the thing cleared up. I have a grandson in there. At least, I hope he’s still in there, somewhere.”

“Are there kids staying over there?” Connie asked.

“Seemed like there was a camp or settlement or whatever you might choose to call it. They didn’t have any electricity, so there weren’t many lights, but at night you’d see glimmers of candles. And the other day some of them brought one of the boats close up and traded messages with us.” He shrugged. “Didn’t say anything about my grandson; everyone said they didn’t know him. But there were some grim expressions when I mentioned his name.”

Connie nodded sympathetically. “I’m Connie Temple. My son—”

“I recognize you, Ms. Temple. From TV. My name is Merwin. The boy is named after me: Drake.”

Connie did her best to conceal her reaction. She had heard the name, and not in a good way. There were stories . . . terrifying stories. “What happened last night?”

The elder Drake Merwin shrugged again; it seemed to be a habit with him. “Well, it’s going to sound crazy.”

Connie waited.

“It was like someone shooting lasers around. And there were explosions. This morning I kept expecting someone from over there to row over and explain. No one showed up. I’ve been watching. I have a good set of binoculars on my boat; the problem is my eyesight isn’t that great anymore. Good till I hit sixty-five, then . . .” Another shrug.

“Can I look through your binoculars?”

He led her onto his boat, docked at the end of the pier. The binoculars were big and mounted on a stand. She had to crouch to see through, and then it took a few tries to get them focused.

Suddenly the scene leaped into view.

“If you’d tell me what you see . . .,” Merwin suggested apologetically.

“There’s a sailboat, all upended. There’s a burning trailer, like a camping trailer . . .” She swallowed hard. “There are more burned things, cars, boats . . . Can we take your boat closer?”

Merwin looked grim. “I’ve been worried what I might see up close.”

She understood that, and without thinking put a comforting hand on his arm.

She cast off the lines while he manned the wheel. It was a big boat for the lake, and with the lake much reduced in size it seemed almost absurd. But he maneuvered it with practiced skill and brought it within ten feet of the barrier.

The two of them were on the flying bridge with the binoculars.

“Are those . . .,” he asked in a pained and fearful voice.

“Yes.” Yes, there were bodies in the water. They were bumping softly against the barrier.

She spotted movement, a single individual. She swung the binoculars toward him and saw what looked like a man, not a child, carrying a blue-and-white container, a cooler, and moving away from the lake, threading his way through coals and tendrils of smoke.

No one would be meeting her here today.

“You said you saw what looked like lasers?” Connie asked, fighting the tremor in her voice.

“I know what you’re thinking, Ms. Temple,” he said. “I saw the video of your boy with that light coming out of his hands. But best not to draw any conclusions about any of this.”

“No,” she agreed.

“There’s a coffeemaker down in the galley. A little cream is all for me.”

Connie went below, grateful for the suggestion. She started the coffee and then found herself gripping a cup so hard the handle broke. She found another and filled a cup for each of them and carried them back up.

Merwin took his and drank, easily holding the boat on its station with slight turns of the wheel and little thrusts of the engines.

“I’m seventy-four years old,” he said, and shrugged again, this time like he was trying to get that fact to roll off his shoulders. “I was drafted into Vietnam. Way before your time, but it was a nasty war, that one.”

“I guess wars usually are.”

He smiled and laughed a little. “Yes, they are, generally. Well, there was this kid, just been bumped to corporal on account of the regular corporal was dead. Nice enough fellow. Only one day, after he’d had no sleep for three days, and no hot food in five days, and had two buddies shot . . .” He stopped then for a moment, breathed hard, and looked away.

She waited.

“As it happened, they captured an NVA—sorry, North Vietnamese Army regular. This NVA was injured, so he couldn’t keep up when his compadres retreated. So, corporal decides to question him. The NVA spits in the corporal’s face. Long story short, the corporal shot him in the neck.”

Silence.

“War crime, that was, shooting a helpless prisoner. Court-martial offense. At least it would have been if anyone had ever reported it.”