I am standing in a field of grass, the most brilliant green I have ever seen, like thin slivers of emerald reaching for the heavens. The sky is radiant and blue above me, unbroken by even the slightest wisp of cloud. The air is warm and still. There is no sound.

I look around, and what I find is very surprising to me.

To my left, about fifty yards away, there is a wooden chair, just like the ones my family has around our kitchen table. Sitting in the chair is Mom, hands in her lap, looking in my direction with a big smile on her face. I begin to wave but then I see that her eyes are not focused on me, but on something in the distance.

I look in that direction, behind me.

There is another chair, just like Mom's, about the same distance from me. Dad is sitting in this one, looking over at Mom, the same smile on his face. Their smiles do not comfort me, they scare me—there is something not right about them, like the clowns at a cheap carnival. It's creepy.

I call to both of them but they do not answer.

Then their expressions change from eerie cheer to utter horror. They look up to the sky. I follow their gaze.

Two balls of fire are hurtling from the sky, trails of flame marking their path. It doesn't take long to realize they are heading for my mom and dad, both on a direct course to obliterate them in a fiery instant of brief pain.

I yell for them to run, but it's as if I'm not there. They ignore me, they ignore their own instincts, they ignore each other. They just sit and wait for certain death.

A splinter of panic pierces my heart. The meteors are moving too fast—there is no way I can get to them both in time. I know that I can save them with the power of the Shield, but I need more time.

The burning rocks are coming, coming faster. They will be here in seconds. What do I do? I am safe because of the Shield, but my parents are not. I can save them if they would only help by running to me.

I yell again, urging them to run. They do not hear, or they choose not to.

I realize I must choose. I can still save one of them. I must choose.

I can't. My feet stay planted on the ground as if caught in invisible glue. My conscience will not allow me to choose between my parents. It is a choice that doesn't register properly in the brain—it is something that a child cannot, and should not, deal with.

So I do nothing.

The plummeting rocks of angry inferno are only feet above my parents, the moment of impact milliseconds away.

Too late, I remember my second Gift. The Ice. Could it have stopped the meteors?

My wail of pain and guilt is swallowed by the thunderous noise of twin explosions.

For the third time since my strange story began, I awoke from my sleep in a pool of sweat, the horrors of a dream lingering in the air like haunted mist. This one was even more real than the others. Why? Why was I having these dreams? I didn't remember ever having nightmares before in my life.

The stress. Maybe that's what it was. Going through such terrifying experiences did whacked-out things to the brain, and these dreams could have been a result.

Still breathing heavily, I tried to go back to sleep. It would take awhile, but eventually I drifted off, this time without nightmares.

It was odd that the dream and the picture incident with Rayna occurred on the same day, sandwiched between so many uneventful weeks. But other than those two things, there wasn't much worth noting or remembering. The days dragged, and the nights were dark and sad.

Dad remained in his coma, Mom at his side constantly. The Shadow Ka didn't bother us, and the night watches got to the point where we didn't take them seriously anymore. But we continued them, just in case.

The ocean had become my home, and I couldn't remember or imagine life without it. The storms, the waves, the rain, the smell, the sounds—it had all become a part of me. Keeping the cabin fever and insanity at bay was becoming more and more difficult, but we did everything we could think of to keep our minds and our bodies exercised. We played games, we vigorously cleaned the ship, we jogged in circles and did pushups and sit-ups, we taught each other things we'd learned in our different stages of life—we tried to keep busy.

It wasn't all bad. Some days were more fun than others. My favorite memories were the soft golden glow of sunsets, sending hues of orange and red across the cloudy sky, and the camaraderie of our group, both family and friends. They made it bearable.

But any way you look at it, there was no doubt that the seventieth day since we left Japan was one that brought a great deal of relief. It brought change, and change was what we needed more than anything else to stave off the madness and the monotony.

That was the day we saw the huge gaping hole in the ocean.