A single ray of tropical sunlight caught the left half of Ian Sikorsky’s glasses. Carefully, the boy angled the lens to reflect the intensified beam onto the pile of leaves on the sand in front of him. There was a breathless silence. Then “It’s not burning,” Charla observed, worried. “The leaves are still a little damp.” lan’s eyes never wavered from the tiny dot of light concentrated on the brush. “No, they aren’t,” she said. “We’ve been drying them out on the beach for three hours.” “You’ve seen how it rains here. They’re wet.” A tiny but clear note of exasperation Ian had little patience for people who disputed what was obvious. There was an almost inaudible sizzle, and a tiny curl of smoke rose from the pile. And then a newborn flame. Charla let out a sigh of relief and realized she’d been holding her breath. Luke was hard at work using vines to tie together a framework of branches for a lean-to shelter. He ran over to help Charla and Ian arrange kindling in a pyramid around the pile of burning leaves.
