Luke whirled around, a feral snapping in his heart. He blinked sand out of his eyelashes.

A man stood facing him, tapping at a palm-pilot with his fingers, stylus in his teeth. He muttered a muffled curse and retrieved the pen with leather-lined hands. “East coast weather,” he sighed.

Luke shifted his weight from foot to foot.

The man finally looked up and blinked at Luke through expensive sunglasses. “Alex? Uhh…male; hair: blond. About six-two, six…oh, screw it. Kid, that a driver’s license?”

Luke gripped it tighter. Dual valleys of sand showed from where he had been slowly backing away.

“C’mon, hand it over.”

It landed at the man’s feet.

“Thanks. Christ, Alex, makes it so much easier when they have proper ID. Okay – Luke Callahan; DOB : 4/30/89. Six-four. Boston. What in God’s name is this kid doing on a Jersey beach?”

Luke suddenly pumped up sand as he ran as hard as he could, away from this stranger, away from everything that wasn’t right.

“Jesus, Alex, gonna have to call you back.”