They sat on the bus bench slurping ice cream cones, three sets of eyes glued to the store across the street.
A seagull squawked from a nearby tree. A guy on a mountain bike pedaled past and smiled. Every few minutes a car cruised by, braking at the stop sign before continuing.
Just another lazy summer day in Malibu.
Everything perfectly normal.
If they just knew what they were looking for.
The store's front door opened. A mother and daughter walked out and headed for the parking lot. The top of a stuffed toy animal stuck out from the little girl's shopping bag. Diana thought it was a giraffe. Jeffrey guessed a snake. Margaret said nothing.
The mom and girl got in their car and drove off. A few stores down, the clock in the window of a mini-market displayed the time: 3:15 p.m.
Jeffrey and Margaret decided to take pictures, maybe they'd be useful later. Tossing what was left of their cones in a trash can, they walked down opposite sides of the street snapping phone shots — the toy store, the parking lot next door, the ice cream shop on the corner, street views up and down the block.
Diana, meanwhile, stayed on the bench sucking liquefied ice cream through the hole she'd made in the bottom of her cone. By the time her friends re-joined her, the market's window clock read 3:28.
Then 3:38.
"Well, Zero Hour is long gone," Margaret noted. "Now what?"
Jeffrey shrugged. "Let's wait a little longer."
So they did, passing the time with jokes and small talk.
When the bird in the tree let loose with three ear-splitting shrieks Jeffrey flinched, prompting snickers from the girls. The boy from the boonies clearly wasn't used to screaming seagulls.
Then more of nothing. An occasional passing car, a pair of bicyclists, a few customers in and out of the market.
Sudden motion to their left snapped all three heads in that direction — a small dog streaking full speed down the middle of the street directly toward them as a young girl chased after it frantically screaming its name.
The rest came in a wild blur.
A car turned left at the corner directly into the dog's path. The terrified animal froze. The car slammed on its brakes, careened right, jumped the curb, and plowed through the fire hydrant they'd just been standing by, screeching to a stop inches from the toy store's front door as a giant water plume from the broken hydrant exploded into the sky, drenching everything in sight.
And then it was over.
Before anyone could breathe.
Calm to chaos to cascading waterworks in the blink of an eye.
The mini-mart clock read 3:48.
Right time.
The toy store sign showed 2247 Pearl.
Right place.
Both straight from the text.
The one they got ninety minutes ago.