Prologue

The day the world ended started out crystal clear, the sky so sharply, heart-stoppingly blue, it seemed it might crack. Although it was near the end of February, and freezing cold, Mickey and Jenna rode their bikes down the windswept road toward the barrier beach. They did this all spring, summer, and fall, but this was their first bike outing since the winter snows had receded.

Jenna’s favorite bird was the black-throated blue warbler, although it was too early in the season to see one. Mickey’s favorite bird—unseen by either her or Jenna, but loved for its mystery and elusiveness—was the snowy owl, and the rare-bird group had sent out an e-mail that one had been spotted on Refuge Beach. Such e-mails came every day, but this was the first snowy sighting that Mickey could remember.

“It’s freezing,” Jenna said as they pedaled south.

“I know,” Mickey said. “But just think—we’re going to see a snowy owl.”

“The e-mail didn’t even say where it was!”

“That’s because birders always protect owls. They’re so shy and timid,” Mickey said. “But don’t worry. The poster gave it all away when he mentioned cranberry bogs and holly.”

“There are bogs all along here!”

“I know,” Mickey said. “But only one that has a thicket of holly, too. Come on, it’s only another half mile.” They passed the information center, where the Refuge Beach park ranger lived. Mickey had seen the lights on late at night, when she and her mother came down on summer nights to have starlight picnics. Mickey saw his green truck and wondered what he was doing on such a cold, quiet day at the park.

“I can’t wait until we have our licenses,” Jenna said. “One more year. Do you think we’re being hopelessly immature, riding our bikes to Refuge Beach to see a stupid bird?”

“You didn’t think it was stupid last summer,” Mickey murmured, but Jenna didn’t hear; the wind took Mickey’s voice and whirled it over the dunes, out to sea. Her face stung from the cold, and her gloved hands seemed frozen to the handlebars. Jenna didn’t know how much Mickey needed to do this today. Her chest burned—with exertion, but even more from an aching heart. Her parents were back in court this morning.

“We’re getting too old to be birding,” Jenna said warningly. “I do want to see a snowy owl, but that’s it. Birds were one thing when we were younger, Mick. But frankly, I just don’t care about them the same way.”

Mickey nodded. She didn’t reply. Did Jenna have any idea what she was saying? Did she really want to join the ranks of all the other teenagers in their class, who seemed to be losing their spirits drop by drop, suddenly obsessed with stuff like makeup and iPods, clunky boots, and the perfect, cool bike-messenger book bag? Blowing sand grains whipped her cheeks as she pedaled harder.

Just before they got to the thicket, she noticed a construction truck parked on the sandy road. The truck bed contained a small bulldozer, lashed down by a thick chain. Wondering what it was doing there, she skidded and almost wiped out as she turned to look. But she righted her bike, signaled, and turned off the paved road into the small sandy parking lot.

They leaned their bikes up against a split rail fence, went running down the winding trail into the thicket. Mickey’s heart had been pounding, but it relaxed in here. The path was just two-tenths of a mile long, but it seemed to bring her into an enchanted realm.

The thicket was magic. Only the hardiest shore plants could survive in this harsh environment between the dunes and the road. The wind was so relentless, it kept all the bushes low and leaning away from the sea. Pitch pine, blueberry bushes, red maple, shadbush, bayberry, black cherry, red cedars, cranberry bogs, and—in this stretch alone, of the entire ten-mile-long barrier beach—many American holly bushes. The thicket was a haven for migratory and year-round birds, and Mickey had been coming here with her mother since she was a baby. She knew every inch of it by heart, and loved it nearly as much as her own home.

When she and Jenna reached the far end of the path, just over the narrow boardwalk that crossed the marshiest part of the bog—frozen now, from the long winter—Mickey motioned for Jenna to start watching.

They emerged from the shady thicket—all branches bare of leaves, but thick enough to have blocked the sky—into dazzling blue. The white dunes were topped with graceful windblown beach grass. The beach was endless, pristine. Not a house was to be seen for miles either up or down the strand—Refuge Beach had never been developed, due to its combination of wetlands and nesting habitats.

Mickey felt ghosts here. A U-boat had sunk just offshore during World War II, and sometimes she imagined she heard the spirits of the sailors who had drowned. She thought she heard them now, and a sudden shudder went through her body.

It might have been the cold. Taking a few more steps, she gazed over the beach. Her face froze in the sharp sea wind. Beach grasses bent flat sketched circles in the hard sand. A crooked old wooden jetty, battered by storms and covered with barnacles, meandered into the sea. Long waves flowed in. There was a legendary break off this beach, and surfers loved it here, even in winter. But today was too cold even for them.

Mickey’s heart kicked. She looked around. She had a sixth sense about birds, and she could feel the owl even before she saw it. Her eyes were drawn instantly: round and white, the snowy owl resembled a soccer ball sitting in the middle of the beach, just this side of the jetty, several feet from a silver, wind-blasted driftwood log.

“There,” she whispered, her hand on Jenna’s arm.

“Oh my God,” Jenna whispered back.

They stood perfectly still for several minutes. The snowy owl didn’t move. It was regal, elegant, pure white, the tips of some feathers flecked with grayish brown. Because it was midday, Mickey knew the owl was probably sleeping. The girls held their breath, not wanting to even breathe. Waves broke along the shore, the sea brilliant blue and fairly calm, despite the steady breeze.

Presently Jenna nodded; she was ready to leave. The friends backed away from the owl. Mickey stared at it as long as she could. She would have liked to stay in the dunes, waiting for dusk and the bird’s fly-out. To see a snowy owl hunting low along this stretch of Mickey’s beloved beach, so far south of its normal habitat, would feel almost miraculous to Mickey—and she knew she needed a miracle today.

“That was so cool,” Jenna said, once they were well into the thicket and unlikely to disturb the owl. “I can’t believe I finally saw one. Okay, check it off the list.”

“It was amazing,” Mickey said, pricked by Jenna’s attitude.

By the time she and Jenna got onto their bikes, she felt anger and frustration building in her chest. How could Jenna not want to wait a little longer? How could she be so cavalier about seeing a snowy owl—the bird she knew was Mickey’s favorite—for the first time in her whole life?

Something made Mickey turn around; she felt a flutter inside, and she was sure the owl was about to fly over. She saw that the footprints they had made on their walk into the thicket and over the dunes were already gone—erased by the relentless wind. There was no sign of the owl, but again she spotted the bulldozer and flatbed truck.

“I wonder what that’s for,” Mickey said to Jenna, gesturing at the equipment.

“It belongs to Josh’s father,” Jenna said, mentioning her boyfriend Tripp’s close friend. Josh Landry’s family had recently moved to the state, and his father was a well-known businessman who was always involved in controversial projects. Mickey had been so preoccupied with her parents lately, she hadn’t been keeping up on local news.

“What’s he going to do here?” she asked.

“Oh, something to do with that sunken submarine. Didn’t you see it in the paper? I guess it’s been snagging fishing nets, so they’re going to try moving it, or removing the periscope and stuff like that. Mr. Landry wants to help by getting it out of here. He’s going to take it somewhere so it can be turned into a museum.” Jenna was glowing as she spoke, as if she thought he was a local hero.

“Help our community?” Mickey asked. “By moving the U-boat? That’s not possible!” Incredulous, she spun her head around to look.

This time she noticed a young man standing beside the truck. He held fire—tall flames shooting up from his fingertips. Mickey’s mind whirled; having just seen the snowy owl, she thought he must be a sorcerer, about to do wild magic. Her eyes met his, and in that instant she recognized him as one of the surfers from her high school. His expression was dark, his hand blazing as he tried to duck back, out of view.

“We have to help him,” she gasped, realizing that he was burning.

As Mickey charged toward him, her bike skidded on the sand. She felt herself lose control—not in a bad way, but as if she had suddenly grown wings. She was a snowy owl, lifting, rising above the road, almost high enough to see over the dunes and out to sea. She’d swoop down, put the fire out, save him.

“Mickey, watch out!” Jenna screamed.

“Whoa!” the fire boy yelled.

Mickey let go of the handlebars. She felt her arms go up over her head, up into the air, trying to steady herself, grab on to something solid in the sky. She heard the bike tumble and crash on the pavement beneath her, and then she heard Jenna scream again, and then she felt herself come crashing down like a bird with broken wings onto the cold, sandy tar.