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Quite obviously this man , this tormented stranger nearing their elite circle , had come from that torrential storm . One in every single color . After some time the other three were finally sober enough to stand their watch . As he glanced down at his body , it looked distorted beneath the water , yet even from that skewed perspective it held no surprises for him . Except for the shoes , which should have been scuffed motorcycle boots for this image , he looked like a James Dean movie character ; a bad-boy drifter , breaking hearts in every county as he moved aimlessly from place to place . On any given day-but especially between September and June-the educational crossroads was a mass of guitar-playing , candle-lighting students who had managed to corner the bead market despite the marijuana haze in which the days disappeared . She 'd been " the Mitchell girl " - the responsible one , the one who had to grow up early because her parents were gone , the one teachers could count on to follow the rules and go above and beyond in the classroom , the one adults smiled at when passing on the street , the one invisible to her classmates . Italian stonecutters had carved pretentious gargoyles and griffins in every available spot as if the amount of decoration justified the expense of their commission .