Chapter 2.

Fifteen years later.

The narrow coastal road clung precariously to the cliff's edge. An unforgiving wall of rock on one side, the Irish Sea, and a watery grave on the other. Jim O’Neil, eighteen, squinting from the summer sun, sped nevertheless. His masculinity in some way proportional to the overage from posted speed limits. Cara Campbell sat to his left. She shifted nervously in her seat, the prospects of death by crushing or drowning equally unattractive.

A mile and a half of uncomfortable silence had left Jim anxious. Only thirty minutes into the evening, and he was already running out of material.

Hoping to get a read on his passenger, he took a discreet sideways glance. Cara looked straight ahead, oblivious to or completely ignoring his lecherous stare. A look of terror on her face reminded him to focus back on the road and the wall of rock he was racing toward. His whispered curse and a lifesaving swerve did nothing to shore up his plummeting expectations for the evening.

As was often the case, self-doubt had found legs.

Was Cara out of his league? His best friend Rick Kilroy certainly thought as much and never missed an opportunity to say so. "She’ll dump your sorry ass in a couple of weeks," Rick had said earlier in the day. "You’re just filling in until something better comes along."

"Are you hungry?" Jim asked, desperately seeking to seed a conversation.

"Not really," Cara answered, distant and uninterested.

"What did you have for dinner?"

"A salad and a little fruit."

"Very healthy," Jim said. "I had a greasy burger!"

And back to square one. He started to sense that the evening had already slipped away from him. His earlier rhetoric to friends was looking like the prefight bluster of a prizefighter destined to take a fall in the first round.

Then, unexpectedly, salvation. Cara turned to face him. "Where is this mystery picnic spot?"

As Jim explained, he pulled off the main road onto a narrow, winding dirt track. Down its center ran a single strip of long grass with deep ruts cut on either side. Jim avoided the large muddy holes as best he could. Cara was mildly concerned about getting stuck in one and having a long walk back to civilization.

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Eventually, he pulled over into a clearing. They got out, gathered the picnic gear, and started walking. A little further on, they climbed over a rusty gate and started up a rocky path. A freshly painted and oddly out of place No Trespassing sign recommended they do otherwise.

They found the spot. Behind them was the majestic Dunluce Castle. Roofless, its gray stone walls and turrets had survived six centuries of harsh Irish weather and gave every indication that they would survive another six. In front, laid out like a silk sheet, stretched the blue Irish Sea.

Jim put down a blanket, unpacked the basket, and uncorked a bottle of wine. They talked and ate. He opened a beer, a move calculated to leave more wine for Cara. She drank slowly, too slowly for his liking. He offered to refill her glass, she declined, and he tried to relax. There was an almost tangible expectation of things to come but little urgency, at least on Cara's part, to get there.

As the sun slowly set, they laid back and looked up at the sky. Jim prepared to make his move. Cara contemplated the silence, the smell of the ocean, the beauty of the night. For the first time since her father’s death in January, she felt at ease. Exams were over and against all odds, she had passed; medical school would start in September. She was sure the summer would bring renewal. The long, dark months that had threatened an endless winter were coming to an end.

She turned and looked at Jim. He stared back, biting his lip. She put a hand on his cheek and pulled him to her.

Suddenly, an intense heat exploded in her chest, replaced in a heartbeat by a surge of cold that froze her lungs. Matter annihilated by antimatter, leaving behind a void and some vague memory of darkness that once filled it. She gasped and leaped to her feet. Jim followed, clutching his chest.

"That was weird," he said, struggling for breath.

Cara kept one hand on her chest and looked down at the blanket, and then out to the open sea, hoping for anything that could provide an explanation. The cool night air held tight its secrets.

"Hey, Cara, are you okay?" Jim asked. Seeing tears in her eyes, he stepped toward her, attempting a reassuring smile.

"What was that?" she asked, panic in her voice.

"Maybe something we ate?" Jim offered up unconvincingly.

Cara shook her head. "I don’t think so. I don't like it here. Can we leave now?" she asked.

"What . . . why now?" he stuttered. "There's no rush."

"I want to go." Her voice was firm. It was clear she was not going to entertain a counter-proposal.

Although on the verge of such a proposal, Jim refrained, realizing that the night was already lost. "Okay, let's get the gear," he said.

"No! We can get it some other time. Let’s just go, please."

In the fading light, it was dangerous negotiating the path back to the car. Cara traded caution for speed; Jim struggled to keep up. Neither one talked on the drive back to town. Jim's thoughts lingered on their unfinished business, and he tried a couple of times to resurrect the evening. Cara just wanted to be home. He suggested they meet the following morning, but she was noncommittal. He dropped her off without even a kiss goodnight.