Aaron hears footsteps outside his tent on a rainy night deep in the interior of central Missouri's Lake of the Ozarks: crunch of an acorn; breaking of a twig. He reaches for his .45 that he carried as a Marine 2nd Lt. in Afghanistan where a roadside bomb took off the lower half of his left leg. He has a Purple Heart and Silver Star. "Anybody home?" comes a plaintive female voice.
"What's up?" Aaron says, sticking his head out of the tent.
"I had a tent but it's no good anymore. I don't have a place to get out of the rain. Would you mind sharing your tent with me for tonight? I won't take up much room...."
Her name is Amanda. Her worldly possessions are in a backpack, bedroll in a trash bag. She's homeless. Aaron's tent is pitched on a lot he purchased for little more than a song: it sits near an old graveyard -- too near for most prospective buyers, and overlooks the lake.
Amanda is a 10th grade dropout. She has always wanted to be a writer. Aaron is a Cornell man. He taught English lit and science to high school seniors before joining the Marines. Together these two will spin a yarn that will stun the scientific community and leave them wondering -- in the end -- if something out there does, after all, have a heart and a sense of humor as well.
