utside, I waited for Hi to appear.

I stood on the common fronting our row of townhomes. Sun pounded the grass. Half the size of a football field, our lawn is the only large green space around.

Beyond the common, palmetto palms curve up from the sand, defiant, determined to add character. The trees were the only objects breaking my view of the sea.

Hand-shading my eyes, I squinted westward. A soft morning haze shrouded the ocean, cutting visibility. Somewhere out there is Loggerhead, I thought. And Kit, working another weekend.

Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. Whatever. He rarely spent time with me.

Still no Hi.

Only May, but already temperatures were hitting the nineties. The air was heavy with the smell of grass, salt marsh, and sun on concrete.

I admit it. I am a sweater. I sweat. I began doing it then. How do these Southerners stand the heat?

Back in Massachusetts, the late spring days would still be pleasantly cool. Perfect for sailing on the Cape. It was Mom’s favorite time of year.

Finally Hi appeared at the side of the yard, chest heaving, hair and shirt soaked. I didn’t need psychic powers to know there was trouble.

Hi trudged to me, clearly out of gas. Before I could speak, his finger shot into the air, begging a moment. Hands on knees, he worked to regain his breath.

“One.” Gasp. “Minute.” Gasp. “Please.”

I waited, thinking he might pass out.

“In retrospect, running up here was a bad plan.” Quick inhales, more hiccup than gasp. “It must be a hundred degrees. My boxers are toast.”

That’s Hi, always the gentleman.

Hiram Stolowitski lives three units over from Kit and me. Mr. Stolowitski, Linus, is a lab technician on Loggerhead. A quiet, dignified man. Hi does not take after his dad.

“Let’s get out of here.” Hi was still sucking wind, but less than before. “If my mother sees me, I’ll be hauled off to temple or something.”

Hi’s desire for cover was not total paranoia. Mrs. Stolowitski’s sporadic bursts of piety often led to forty-minute drives to the Kahal Kadosh Beth Elohim synagogue in downtown Charleston. Took practice, but I can finally pronounce it.

While we may not see eye-to-eye on the whole God thing, most Morris Islanders agree: we live way too far out to be regular churchgoers. Or temple.

To be fair, the Presbyterian church I allegedly attend is miles closer than Hi’s synagogue. Kit and I attended a service once. Took me ten seconds to see he’d never been there before. We made no second appearance.

I hear the Big Guy’s pretty understanding. I hope so.

Ruth Stolowitski also runs the community watch program for our complex. Unnecessary? Absolutely. But don’t tell Ruth that. She’s convinced that the only thing preventing a Morris Island crime spree is her ceaseless vigilance. In my opinion, total isolation works pretty well. Who’s going to rob us? A crackhead crab? A jellyfish junkie?

To avoid his mother’s ever-watchful eye, Hi and I trooped to the side of the building. Which, mercifully, was in the shade. The temperature dropped ten degrees.

Hi’s not fat, but he’s not slender, either. Husky? Plump? You pick. With wavy brown hair and a penchant for floral print shirts, Hi certainly stands out in a crowd.

That morning, Hi wore a yellow-and-green vine arrangement over tan shorts with a torn left pocket. Uh-oh. Don’t let Ruth see that.

“You all right now?” I asked. Hi’s face had moved from plum to raspberry.

“I’m exceptional,” he replied, still short of oxygen. “Wonderful. Thanks for the concern. You complete me.”

Hi Stolowitski is a master at sarcasm.

“What possessed you to run all the way up from the dock?” As the words left my mouth, I realized the insanity of my own jogging plan.

“Ben crashed his boat while fishing for drum in Schooner Creek. He drove too shallow and ran aground.” Hi had finally regained his breath. His distress was evident. “He went airborne and slashed his leg on something. I think it’s bad.”

Ben Blue lives in our complex, but sometimes stays in Mount Pleasant with his mom. I’d been waiting for Ben and Hi to take me to Folly.

“How bad? When? Where is he?” Worry made me babble.

“He got the boat to the bunker, where I was, but then the engine died.” Hi smiled ruefully. “I paddled the old canoe back here to find Shelton. Thought it would be faster. Dumb move. It took forever.”

Now I knew why Hi was so exhausted. Canoeing in the ocean is hard work, especially against the current. The bunker is only a mile and a half from the complex. He should have walked. I didn’t rub it in.

“What now?” Hi asked. “Should we get Mr. Blue?”

Ben’s father, Tom Blue, operates the boat service connecting Morris to Loggerhead Island, and the ferry running between Morris and Charleston proper.

Hi and I looked at each other. Ben had owned his runabout less than a month. Mr. Blue was a stickler for boat safety. If he found out about the accident, Ben could lose his favorite possession.

“No,” I said. “If Ben wanted his father’s help, he’d have come back with you.”

Seconds passed. On the beach, gulls cawed the day’s avian news. Overhead, a line of pelicans rode the wind, wings outstretched to catch the best breeze.

Decision. I’d try to patch Ben up myself. But if the wound was serious, we’d get medical help. Angry parent or not.

“Meet me on the path.” I was already hurrying toward my house to grab a first aid kit. “We’ll bike to the bunker.”

Five minutes later, we were racing north on a strip of hard-packed sand slinking through massive dunes. The wind felt cool on my sweat-slicked skin. My hair streamed behind me in its usual hopeless red tangle.

Too late, I thought of sunscreen. My pale New England skin offers only two tone options: white or lobster. And sunlight really kick-starts my freckles.

Okay, full disclosure. Modeling agencies aren’t trying to sign me or anything, but I’m probably not bad looking. I can admit it here. Already five-five and hoping for more, I’m graced with my mother’s tall, slender physique. She left me that much.

The path we rode swept northwest from our complex to the tip of the island, Cumming’s Point. On the left, high dunes. On the right, sloping beach, then the sea.

Hi pedaled behind me, panting like a steam locomotive.

“Should I slow down?” I yelled back over my shoulder.

“Try it and I’ll run you over,” he called. “I’m Lance Armstrong. I live strong.”

Sure you are, Hi. And I’m Lara Croft. I eased off gradually so he wouldn’t notice.

Since much of Morris Island is marsh or dune, only the northern half has ever been suitable for construction. Fort Wagner was built there. Same with the other old military works. Most were simple ditches, trenches, or holes.

Not our bunker, baby. It’s killer. We stumbled on it while searching for a lost Frisbee. A total fluke. The thing’s so hidden, you have to know where it is to find it. Long abandoned and forgotten, no one else seems to remember it exists. We intend to keep it that way.

Five minutes more pedaling, then we cut off the path, curved up and around the face of a gigantic sand hill, and plunged down into a trough. Another thirty yards and a wall of the bunker was visible, barely, among the dunes.

A dozen yards to the right of the bunker’s entrance, a side trail wandered to the beach below. I could see Ben’s motorboat tied up to a half-submerged post at the edge of the surf. It rose and fell with the low waves breaking the shore.

I dismounted and dropped my bike to the sand. Just then, a muffled curse broke from the bunker.

Alarmed, I ducked inside.