On a beach about the size of three beds placed end to end, a man with silver-gray hair sat on rock that was covered with bluegreen moss, as thick as the wall to wall carpets in Septemberclaver houses. "Why is no one else here?" Clara asked.

"They say nothing ever happens here," he replied. "Except for the seasons changing," he continued, as if talking to himself. "The leaves that fall into the lake in October. Rainy season storms. In the spring, along the banks of the lake, for miles around the lake, I see yellow and blue wildflowers on the shores."