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  For my three favorite shark taggers, all saltwater borne: Silas William Wayne, Saylor Grace, and Emerson Elora White

  ONE

  LIGHTNING STRIKES!

  After a few weeks in Florida, Luke decided he wanted to be a fishing guide like his aunt, Captain Hannah Smith, and was learning faster than usual until the day he was struck by lightning.

  That’s what he was told, anyway, by the old man standing over him when he woke up. By then it was raining hard.

  “You okay?” the old man asked.

  Luke blinked water from his eyes and croaked, “Huh?”

  When the man’s mouth moved to repeat the question, his words were muffled by a terrible ringing sound. “Huh?” Luke said again.

  “My lord, you’re deaf as a rock, but at least you ain’t dead.” The old man exhaled and extended his hand. “Come on—get up.”

  Luke realized he was curled on a wooden dock, where he’d been watching a storm sail across the bay. The colors of the sky—neon green and purple—were unlike anything he’d seen while growing up on a farm in Ohio. Something else he’d never seen was a large, dark shape beneath the water—and what might have been the tip of a fin. An animal of some type cruising through the shallows toward him.

  “What happened?” he asked when he was on his feet.

  The old man pointed and spoke louder—or maybe the ringing noise was going away. “A lightning bolt hit close to where you were standing. Seemed to snake up out of the water and zapped you, too. I saw it all from the porch and come on the run. You okay?”

  The man was short and wore thick glasses. Water poured off his straw hat like a waterfall. Luke couldn’t understand why everything was blurry and why splotches of bright colors—neon green and purple—flickered behind his eyes.

  “I feel sorta weird,” he said, shaking the numbness from his hands. “Who are you?”

  The old man appeared concerned. “You don’t know?”

  Luke squinted and tried to remember, despite the swirling colors. “A fisherman, I think,” he said finally. “Captain … Arlis something. Arlis Futch?”

  The man took him by the arm. “You weren’t the sharpest hook in the box to begin with, but now I’m worried. Come on, let’s get out of this rain.”

  Luke was on the porch, a blanket around him, staring at an oddly shaped blister on his hand when Captain Futch came out of the house carrying a steaming mug.

  “I’m too young to drink coffee,” Luke told him.

  “I’m not,” the man said, “and I’m too old to be running around in a dang storm that coulda got us both killed. You just sit there and take it easy. Down the road we’ll discuss an old saying about fools and ducks coming in out of the rain. Is your memory coming back?”

  “I don’t remember losing it,” Luke replied.

  “If you were the clever type,” the man said, “I’d think you’re being a smart aleck. How do you feel?”

  “Like I stepped on a nest of hornets,” the boy said. “I couldn’t breathe—and my body was on fire. But I’m okay now.” After a moment he added, “I saw something out there. From the dock. Big. Too big to be a fish.”

  “Son, in Florida there ain’t nothing too big to be a fish. And making up stories is a piddly poor excuse for standing out in a storm.” The man glanced at his watch as if awaiting the sound of a siren.

  Luke didn’t like that. “You shouldn’t have called her,” he argued.

  The man was confused. “Who, your aunt Hannah? She don’t answer the phone when she’s on a fishing charter. You should know that by now. That woman’s all business in a boat. When this squall starts to slide south, I’ll try then.”

  “Not Hannah—the doctor who told you to call an ambulance,” Luke said. He scratched at a painful area on his arm and kept talking, despite the look of surprise on the old captain’s face. “Dr. Tamiko had to say that because most doctors are worried about getting sued.”

  The man squinted through his glasses. “How’d you know? You never met Doc Tamiko. Doubt if I ever mentioned her name before.”

  “You must’ve had the phone on speaker,” Luke reasoned. “I heard every word she said. She told you to make us some hot tea while we waited. But she didn’t mention making coffee for yourself and pouring whiskey in it. Oh—and that I should be checked for burns.”

  Captain Futch looked at the door to the house. It was closed. Through a window, he could see a fireplace and then a hall, which led to the kitchen, where he’d spoken in whispers to the only doctor on the island.

  “If that don’t beat all,” the old man said. “Ten minutes ago you were deaf as a tree stump, and now you can hear through walls. Tell the truth—did you sneak inside when I wasn’t looking?”

  Luke wasn’t sure how he’d heard the conversation from the porch during a rainstorm, but he had. “I don’t need an ambulance,” he said, getting up. “I feel okay now that my feet stopped stinging. Sorry you had to go out in this storm because of me, mister.”

  The old fisherman watched the boy start toward the door. “Where you think you’re going?”

  “Home,” Luke said, “to put on some dry clothes.”

  “Home where?” the man asked carefully.

  “You’ve never heard of the place—it’s a little farm town west of Toledo. In Ohio. I don’t mind walking in the rain.”

  “How do you feel about walking through snow?” the man inquired. This stopped the boy in the doorway. “Son, Ohio’s a thousand miles north. If it’s true that lightning never strikes the same person twice, I reckon you’ll be safe as far as Kentucky—but I’d pack a pair of mittens. I need to tell you something before you hike back to the Buckeye State.”

  As Luke started to respond, he heard a buzzing sound, followed by an explosion of sparks in an oak tree visible from the porch. Thunder shook the house. He didn’t flinch—seemed unafraid in a squall fired by lightning bolts and rain.

  Captain Futch noticed and thought, That boy was scared of his own shadow yesterday! Then he said for Luke to hear, “I can give you two reasons you should stay and wait for the doctor. Take a look around. Do you remember being on this porch before?”

  The pulsing colors in Luke’s head dimmed while he squinted and tried to think. Inside the house a baby began to cry, frightened by the thunder. “Who’s that?” he asked.

  “That’s your cousin, baby Izaak,” the old man said, “so have a seat and don’t argue. Luke … I’m your grandpa. You’ve been living here for close to a month.”

  * * *

  Before he was struck by lightning, Lucas O. Jones was average, or below average, at most things, except baseball and farmwork. He wasn’t bright, and he knew it. In Ohio, his mother and teachers had let him know often enough, but in a kindly way that took the form of excuses.

  “He’s easily bored,” they would say, as if Luke wasn’t in the room. “All children react to challenges differently.” Or “His mind is so active, it tends to wander.”


  That was true. Sort of. He was prone to wander off in a dreamy way that seldom invited his brain to tag along. Once, he’d set off following fresh deer tracks in the snow. He didn’t realize he had crossed the border into Michigan until a smiling state trooper informed him he was fifteen miles from home.

  He often forgot important items: his lunch, his homework, even his catcher’s mitt. It was a fine Wilson A2400, the professional model, that he’d baled hay most of a summer to buy.

  “The little doofus would forget his head if it wasn’t attached,” his stepsister, who was not kind, had said more than once.

  His stepfather, who was worse, had warned him, “If you don’t smarten up, I might forget my promise to your mom and send you to live with your crazy old grandpa and that aunt of yours. She’s not the sort to tolerate your boneheaded ways. Trust me, you wouldn’t like Florida—nothing but heat and bugs and snakes down there. The place where they live isn’t anything like Disney World.”

  That was a bad thing? Luke had been a kid, maybe seven years old, when his mother had taken him to Orlando. He’d hated the crowds and noise. Disney World sucked compared to this island on the Gulf of Mexico, where he’d been struck by lightning and was learning to fish but had yet to see a snake.

  That was a disappointment. Luke didn’t know much about reptiles but liked animals. They were a lot easier to get along with than people. He’d raised pigs, Black Angus steers, and a brood of chickens, and trained several dogs as 4-H projects. He figured a snake might be an interesting creature to have around.

  Which is what he should’ve told his stepfather the day Luke forgot to shut off a tractor that, somehow, popped into gear and rolled into the pond. There’d been a bunch of yelling, then another threat when his stepfather hollered, “If I could afford it, I’d fly you south to live with your real family for a year. I swear I would.”

  Grandpa Arlis Futch was right—Luke wasn’t clever enough to sass an adult. But he was a hard worker and good at saving money.

  Luke had looked up at the man who wasn’t his real father and said politely, “How much does an airplane ticket to Florida cost? I’ll pay my own way.”

  * * *

  That was in April. A snowstorm delayed his flight from Cleveland, and landing in the heat and sunlight of Florida had been like parachuting from winter into July.

  A few weeks later—zap. Lightning struck. Now the boy’s memory, like a computer, was beginning to reboot. Flickering strands of information took form in his head. Familiar images reappeared, then whole files—yet with blanks here and there.

  “You’ll be fine, Luke,” Dr. Tamiko reassured him on a Friday. They were in her office. Through the windows he could see palm trees, where parrots and crows rioted in the shade. He had removed his shirt so the physician could inspect the odd burn marks on his shoulder and the palm of his right hand. She was a nice lady, not much taller than Luke, who was average in size for a sixth grader. But he was stronger than most because farmwork required lots of heavy lifting.

  Now he was buttoning his shirt while she talked.

  “The burn marks were caused by the lightning,” she said. “Electricity. High voltage. It probably entered through your hand and exited from your shoulder. The blisters seem to have healed nicely.” She noticed the boy’s look of embarrassment and tried to reassure him. “Don’t worry, the marks will fade as you age. And they’re actually quite beautiful. Don’t think of them as scars. They’re more like pieces of art created by nature. Have you studied them closely in a mirror?”

  Yes, Luke had. That’s why he had chosen a long-sleeve shirt on this warm spring day. And why he kept his right hand closed to hide the strange, feathery-looking scar on his palm.

  Dr. Tamiko said, “It was what the lightning did to your brain that worried us. You see, the human brain is what we call a chemo-electric organ. Studies have been done on people who’ve survived lightning strikes. It sometimes causes, well, changes in how they think and feel—even certain abilities. But you should be back to normal in a week or two.”

  “Chemo-what?” he asked.

  “An electrical circuit,” the doctor explained. “You said you were good at fixing engines?”

  He wasn’t good at it, Luke said, but he’d kept a lawn mower running, plus a chainsaw and the family tractor. He’d had no choice if he didn’t want to do all the work by hand.

  “The tractor was diesel,” he clarified. “That’s why I didn’t think it was a big deal when it rolled into the pond. Diesels don’t have carburetors.”

  “A pond?” the woman asked. “This is the first time you’ve mentioned what life was like before moving to Florida. Good, you’re becoming more talkative, willing to engage.” She made a note on a pad before looking up. “Talking openly about your … how your life was on the farm is a positive change from what I was told. The engine didn’t get wet, I hope.”

  “Just on the outside,” Luke said. “That was after I jumped in the seat and down-shifted. Then the whole tractor flipped and sank to the bottom. It’s a pretty deep pond—even for a John Deere.”

  “You’re saying you sunk a tractor?”

  Luke nodded. “Not on purpose. I should’ve held my breath and tried to drive it out.”

  “Drive a tractor underwater across the pond?” Dr. Tamiko was skeptical.

  “In low gear,” the boy agreed. “I told my stepdad the same thing, but he was too mad to listen. The engine was still running because, like I said, it was a diesel.”

  Adults had a way of rolling their eyes that confirmed he wasn’t bright. The doctor, unaware that Luke was right about diesel engines when submerged in water, smiled at him in a tolerant way.

  “Back to what we were discussing,” she said. “Thank goodness that bolt of lightning wasn’t a direct hit. It would’ve killed you. Keep that in mind. Lightning kills more people in Florida than any state in the nation. But it hit close enough to short-circuit your brain … temporarily. Sort of like crossed wires in one of those engines you fixed.”

  She motioned to a screen where there were images of Luke’s skull made by a device that had binged and clunked and rattled as he lay alone in a narrow tube. “The specialist we sent you to says that, in some ways, you might be more sensitive for a while to sounds, certain odors and colors—especially colors. Is that true?”

  The boy sat straighter. He was interested but didn’t want to show it. “Maybe,” he said.

  “Maybe?”

  Luke nodded.

  “Are you saying you have noticed a change regarding your sense of smell or how you see colors? The woman waited through a long silence. “Luke, it’s not a bad thing. In fact … well, you might be one of the very few lightning-strike survivors who … Well, let me ask you some questions. First, what about your sense of smell. More sensitive?”

  The boy’s nose tested the room. Couldn’t help it. The odor of a hospital was familiar—latex gloves, alcohol. The shampoo Dr. Tamiko had used that morning also hung in the air. There was a sharper scent, sort of like a locker room. Luke looked at his shoes and realized he should’ve changed his socks before leaving the house.

  “My nose seems to work okay,” he said, sliding his feet under his chair.

  The doctor was encouraged. “Okay, what about colors? For instance, do words come into your head as if you are hearing them in color? I know that seems strange, words having color—unless I’m right. The same can be true of sounds and numbers. You might find you see all sorts of things differently now.”

  The boy shrugged. “Could be. Sort of, I guess.”

  Dr. Tamiko nodded as if pleased. “Really?”

  “Yep. Colors. Sometimes.”

  “Excellent,” the woman said. She made more notes on a pad.

  Luke feared he’d said too much. “I guess that means I’m even weirder than I was to begin with.”

  “Weird? Why would you say such a thing?”

  He didn’t want to go into how many times his stepsister had called him that. “Are you
going to tell my granddad and Captain Hannah?”

  “Your aunt? Not if you don’t want me to. But, Luke, listen to me.” The woman placed her notepad on the desk. “There’s nothing weird about the way a person thinks or feels—especially someone your age. Associating colors with words is nothing to be afraid of. Quite the opposite. A tiny percentage of people are born with a … well, let’s call it a gift. A heightened sensitivity to almost everything. That’s the way some describe it.”

  As she continued, a hint of excitement came into her voice. “Research suggests these people can sometimes see and understand what very few other people can, thanks to a … well, almost a sixth sense. Do you know what our five normal senses are?”

  Maybe. Luke was reluctant to guess. He’d missed the last two weeks of school, so it had been a while since he had failed a test.

  The doctor let it slide. The five senses many humans possess, she said, are the ability to see, hear, touch, smell, and taste.

  “This sixth sense that a few people seem to have,” she added, “is very rare. It’s usually associated with colors, certain sounds that only they can see or hear. There’s a term for the condition. It’s called synesthesia. Would you like me to write it on a piece of paper?”

  “Sin-us-what?” Luke asked.

  “Syn-es-thes-ia,” the doctor said, pronouncing the word slowly. “Luke, listen carefully. Diagnostic tests show there have been changes in the frontal lobe of your brain that … well, it’s complicated. But nothing to be afraid of. You’re fine. The consensus is that the condition might be only temporary. With treatment, you’ll soon be back to normal.”

  “Treatment?” Luke didn’t like the sound of that. “What kind of treatment?”

  “Don’t worry about it now. What I’m telling you is, a team of specialists has reviewed your case. They agree you’re going to be okay. Isn’t that great news?”

  After two weeks of dealing with doctors, Luke feared that if he spoke honestly, it would mean more brain scans, more testing—and maybe treatments.