The Devil's Churn. No one else was
there. It was 10:05. He put his head back and closed his eyes.
Francesca came into his mind, tall and calm, and he wished she were
there so that he could introduce her to his father. He had an urge to
start the car, to leave quickly. Francesca looked sorrowful. "O.K.," he
said. She _was_ there, in a way. A car much like his turned off the
highway.
A short man wearing black pressed pants and a gray windbreaker
approached his car. He was wearing a baseball cap that said, "San
Francisco Giants." Oliver got out. The man approached and looked at him
closely. He was clean-shaven, darker than Oliver, thinner, and more
severe. They were the same height.
"You early," his father said.
"You, too." Oliver smiled.
"Come." He turned and motioned with his hand toward a set of wooden
steps that led to the rocks below. Oliver followed him to the steps and
down. Near the bottom, the steps were damp and slippery. A sign warned
them not to go farther: _Danger! Large Waves Come Without Warning!_ His
father ignored the sign and walked to the edge of a deep fissure in the
dark rock. It was twenty feet wide and thirty yards long, narrowing as
it approached a circular grotto eroded into the base of the cliff.
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