ight squeeze, then I was in, blinking to adjust my eyes. That first slap of sunlight and shadow is always a shock.

As hideouts go, ours may be the best ever.

The main chamber is probably fifteen by thirty. Wood-beamed walls rise ten feet to the ceiling. A window slit runs the length of the wall opposite the entrance, framing a kickass view of Charleston Harbor. A wooden overhang masks any hint of the opening from outside.

A second, smaller room lies to the left of the first, accessed by a low passageway. Same squeeze as the front door. From that chamber’s back wall, a collapsed shaft leads deeper into the hill. Mongo creepy. No one goes in there.

Ben slouched on an old bench in a corner of the front room, injured leg propped on a chair. Blood trickled from a gash on his shin.

He regarded me a moment. Then, “I asked for Shelton.” Ben never wastes words.

Nice to see you, too.

Behind me, I sensed Hi shrugging. “Tory found me first. Ever try telling her what to do?”

Ben rolled his eyes. Nice ones, dark, with lashes I’d die for.

I arched a brow, revealing what I thought of their comments. “I brought a first aid kit. Let me see your leg.”

Ben scowled, kept a close watch on my movements. I saw through his macho act. He was afraid I’d hurt him, but couldn’t let on.

Good. Be nervous, wuss.

Unlike the rest of us, Ben has reached the magical age of sixteen. Shelton rounds that corner next fall, and Hi just turned fifteen this spring. We are closing out a rough freshman year. Ben is finishing up as a sophomore.

Instead of buying wheels like a normal person, Ben had just put all his savings into an old, sixteen-foot Boston Whaler runabout. He calls her Sewee.

Don’t get the name, right? Neither did I.

Ben claims to be part Sewee Indian. I’m skeptical, since the Sewee were absorbed into the Catawba tribe over a century ago. How can anyone actually claim ties? But Ben has a temper, so it’s not a point we argue.

I guess a boat’s better than nothing. A non-wrecked one would be, anyway.

“Is there a reason you were showboating in the tidal bay?” I was dabbing iodine on Ben’s shin. The wound wasn’t a stitcher, thank God, just ugly.

“I wasn’t showboating.” Ben sucked in his breath as I tied off the bandage. “I tried to get closer to shore, where the fish were. I misread the depth.”

“Catch anything?” I asked innocently.

Ben’s scowl deepened. My guess hit home.

“And how about putting on a shirt there, pal.” Hi needled.

Ben’s eyes rolled to him.

“Hey.” Hi spread his palms. “This is a classy bunker.”

Having delivered his opinion on clubhouse etiquette, Hi crossed to the room’s only table and sat. The rickety wooden chair listed to port. Reconsidering, Hi moved to the bench.

Ear-tucking thick black hair, Ben leaned one muscular shoulder against the bunker wall. Of medium height, there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. Ben’s eyes were brown-black, his skin copper or bronze depending on the season.

“I thought Shelton could figure out how to fix the runabout,” Ben said.

Diplomatic. He was trying to apologize without actually apologizing.

Ben obsesses about his boat. Sensing he was more worried about the damage than he was letting on, I accepted the olive branch.

“If anyone can fix her, Shelton can,” I said.

Ben nodded.

Ben’s mother, Myra Blue, lives in a condo near the Mount Pleasant marina. Ben and his dad share a unit on Morris Island. Though the marital status of the senior Blues is unclear, taking our cues from Ben, the rest of us honor a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy.

My guess? Ben bought the runabout because it’s easier to zip across the harbor to Mount Pleasant than to drive all the way around.

“I’ve got my phone,” I said. “I’ll text Shelton.”

“Good luck scoring a signal,” Hi offered as I headed for the door. Ben remained silent, but I felt dark eyes on my back.

Hi was right. Cell reception is sketchy on Morris, practically nonexistent at the bunker. After zigzagging the dune-top for a good ten minutes, my message to Shelton finally went through. Descending, I was pleased to hear my phone beep an incoming text. Shelton was on his way.

Worming through the entryway, I thought about Ben. He was cute enough, but Lord was he moody. I’d moved to Morris six months earlier. Since then we’d had almost daily contact, but still I couldn’t say I understood him.

Did I like Ben? Did that explain all the verbal sparring? Closet flirting? Or was Ben simply the only option in a very, very small pond?

Or was I just nuts?

On that happy note, I popped back inside.

Hi had dozed off. Ben was still slumped on his bench. Crossing to the window, I hopped onto the ledge and nestled into one of the old cannon grooves.

Out in the harbor, Fort Sumter looked like a miniature Camelot. Well, a gray and crappy Camelot. My mind wandered. I thought about Arthur and his knights. About Kit. About poor Guinevere.

About my mother. The accident.

Deep breath. The memory was still a raw wound I tried not to poke.

Mom was killed last fall by a drunk driver. A mechanic named Alvie Turnbauer ran a stoplight and T-boned her Corolla. She was driving home from picking up a pizza. Turnbauer was leaving Sully’s Bar and Grill where he’d been downing Coronas all afternoon.

Turnbauer went to jail. Mom went to Resthaven Memorial Garden. I went to South Carolina.

Nope. Still too soon.

I turned my thoughts to other things. Sandals I’d seen at the open market. Paint colors I might like for my bedroom. A rough spot on a molar I feared was a cavity.

Eventually, a voice boomed from outside the crawl. “Someone call for a mechanic?”

In popped Shelton, holding a manual and a paper-stuffed folder. Ben perked up immediately.

Shelton Devers is short and skinny and wears thick, round glasses. His chocolate skin favors his African-American father, but his eyelids and cheekbones hint of his Japanese mother. Shelton’s parents both work on Loggerhead Island, Nelson as the IT specialist, Lorelei as a veterinary technician.

“So wise to consult an expert.” Shelton raised both arms. “Be at peace, brother Ben. I can save your boat.”

A beat, then Shelton’s mock-solemn expression morphed into a grin. Snorting laughter, Ben shoved to his feet, anxious to get to work.

No surprise that Ben wanted Shelton’s help most. He’s a whiz at anything with pieces, parts, or pixels. Shelton loves puzzles, ciphers, and anything with numbers. Computers, too. I guess you could call him our techno guru. It’s what he calls himself.

Shelton’s weakness? A fear of all things crawly. At his insistence, bug spray is kept in the bunker at all times. He won’t win any athletic awards, either.

Ben and Shelton spread the manual and papers across the table. Soon they were bickering about the nature of the malfunction and how to fix it.

Who knows? If they hadn’t repaired the boat, we wouldn’t have gone to Loggerhead that afternoon. Perhaps none of this would have happened.

But we did.

And it did.