The Horrible Luck at Summer Thorn

Their skin glittered beneath the throbbing sun. Beads of sweat filled their brows, freed with each splash and dunk of water. The somewhat secret lake cooled their senses in the summer heat; it was a nice getaway from the boredom of summer break. 

“I don’t want it to end,” sister remarked to brother, glancing upward to the cerulean drenched sky. 

It would, however, as a man in a tan hat spoke to their father along the shoreline. Afterward, father collected their belongings. It was time to go. 

“We can’t swim over there, Summerthorn Lake is a private area like the tan hat said.” Father pointed out for the eleventh time in the days that followed. “We’ll just plan a trip to the beach…” While the children hated long car rides, an hour long drive to the beach sounded lousy. Why go so far when bliss awaited them down the road? They had swum there so many times without detection. 

Before they could answer, a preview of the local news opened with a grim flash briefing: 

Local man dead after swimming in Summerthorn Lake. A brain-eating amoeba is to blame. More at eleven. 

“The beach sounds great Dad!”