His fists bunched like hard rolls when he wasn't eating or
telling jokes. Oliver was well satisfied with him.

Oliver took to walking on Crescent Beach early in the morning. It was
cold, foggy sometimes, but always refreshing. He walked the upper path
that led through woods and across a field to a rocky shoreline. From
there, the path turned eastward, following the shore to the beach and
to the main parking lot, closed at that time of year. One morning he
noticed an unusual arrangement of sticks and rocks near the beginning
of the beach. The sticks were jammed into the sand at odd angles. Small
rocks were piled to suggest barricades. It was like a kid's fort but
more sophisticated.

The next morning, the fort had become a small town with a watchtower at
its center. Two days later, there was only a low wall protecting a
woven matting of driftwood sticks. Oliver imagined an art student
practicing, seeing what things looked like as he or she made them.

On Sunday, Oliver had breakfast at six. The park was empty when he
arrived. The leaves were damp and thick on the ground except for a few
coppery oak leaves, always the last to fall. Tough stuff, oak, Oliver
thought. He stopped to look for the latest sculpture. At first, he saw
only random driftwood. It was as though a storm at high tide had
leveled all traces of beach-goers. It was a loss. He had begun to
connect with the anonymous arrangements; he looked forward to seeing
them.

His attention was drawn to a protected spot below an eroded bank. Beach
grass hung forward over the edge of the bank. A semicircle of thin flat
stones stood upright in the sand. Oliver approached. They stood like
Easter Island miniatures, thin sides facing the ocean. Oliver's
imagination shrunk and stood on the stand looking up at them. Just
then, the sun rose. Golden light swept over the ocean, up the beach,
caught in the overhanging bank, and leaped on across the continent. The
stone people were the first to see it.

"Oliver?"

He jumped. Someone had come along the path. Francesca! "Oh, hi!" he
said. "You scared me. Look at this." He motioned her over and pointed.
"The Early People--they've been waiting for the sun."

"So have I," Francesca said. She was wearing tan jeans and a long gray
sweatshirt. "Brrr."

"Somebody keeps making sculptures here," Oliver said. "I started
noticing them this week."

"Do you come here often?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"I try to walk here on Sunday morni