As usual, Wooter Truman was bored in church, but this was the first time he had fallen asleep. The voice of the minister had droned on and on, like the motor of an electric fan. Whrrrr. Whrrrr. First his eyelids drooped, heavier and heavier. Then his breathing became more rhythmic, in and out, in and out, until his chin dropped to his chest and a thin string of drool dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

He drifted into a dream, a beautiful dream, set on a soccer field, the color of emeralds. In his dream, Wooter moved the ball down the right wing with amazing speed and agility, cutting back toward the goal, fooling a defender. As he watched himself, Wooter admired his gold uniform, glowing like it was on fire. A cute girl on the sidelines, Felicity Meadows, cheered him on. He pushed the ball forward and cocked his right leg to strike the winning goal, until, like a locomotive, a defender, dressed in black and wearing a skull bandana, took him down hard, spun him in the air until he came crashing down on his back. His enemy, Brock Scuzman, stood over his body and laughed.

"Oh, Shoooot!" bellowed Wooter. Except he didn't use the word "Shoot." Instead, he used another word that he first heard after his father had once hit his own thumb with a hammer. Wooter had used it once before in the presence of an adult when his Aunt Grace almost drove her car over the family cat.

Wooter's eyes snapped open now, and he remembered where he was, sitting in a church pew, except now everyone was not looking at the Reverend Fullmer in the pulpit. About 300 pairs of eyes were staring at him. Those words, "Oh Shoot," had been uttered not just in his dream, but out loud, so everyone could hear.

He looked up, turned his head, and was caught, like a rabbit, by the frowning eyes of his father, Tom Truman. Over his dad's shoulder he could see the face of his mother, Julie, her jaw open in disbelief. His sister Susie held her hand over her mouth, trying to choke back laughter. "Leave the church now, Wooter," his father hissed.

Wooter's face burned crimson as he stepped out of the pew and walked, head bowed, like a man headed for the torture rack, toward the back of the church. As he walked, he felt the sting of every eye, like a swarm of hornets on his back.

Wooter stopped in the men's room in the church vestibule. He spit in the sink, splashed cold water on his face, and stared at himself in the mirror. He shook his head in disgust at what he saw. A tall, skinny twelve-year-old kid with unruly blond hair, skin as white as paper, with a dozen or so reddish pimples like cities on a map. The only nice thing anybody had ever said about his appearance came from his mom. "Wooter, you have the bluest eyes," she smoothed his eyebrows with her thumbs, "and such a sweet smile. Some girl some day is really going to fall for that smile."

Some day, but not today. He stepped out into the cool autumn air. Calusa, Florida, could be warm in early November, but today the morning breeze was brisk. It felt good on his face. He looked down and took a moment to admire his new orange and black basketball shoes, the same kicks worn by his sports hero Deon Price. Wooter rose up off the ground in an imaginary jump shot.

For the next few minutes he passed the time by shooting rocks at the trunks of palm trees in the park next to the church hall. Wooter had a good aim and hit the tree again and again, until one of the rocks ricocheted and struck the church dumpster with a loud clang. That noise was followed by another, a sound like the mewing of a cat. Wooter tiptoed to investigate.

Inside the church, Reverend Fullmer was nearing the end of the service. He was a large, round man with mocha skin and a bald pate. He had a soft speaking voice -- it had put Wooter to sleep -- but a beautiful, deep singing voice. When the sound emerged from his puffy face, it seemed like a miracle.

"Please join me in singing 'Amazing Grace,' " he said, but stopped suddenly, a puzzled look on his face. "My goodness, young Mr. Truman, what are you up to now?"

Everyone turned to look at Wooter, who stood like a statue, his eyes wide, his mouth opened. In his arms he held a bundle, what looked like a white beach towel, but even from a distance people could see it was stained with blood. "It's a baby," shouted Wooter as if someone had jolted him with electricity. "I found a baby."