The final remnants of once almighty Atlantic Ocean waves softly crawled up the sand. It was low tide and only a few dozen people remained to see a Virginia Beach summer sunset. Some couples sat on blankets, families threw nerf footballs to squeeze any remaining drops of fun from the day, and Nick and Melissa walked along the sand holding hands.

With one more day on their week-long retreat away from the bustle of Boston, the young couple wanted a final walk before heading back to the beach house they rented for their trip. Everything felt slower down here, they said, and it was such a wonderful feeling. A simpler life. Calmer.

Nick pointed out a bird divebombing into the ocean and coming up empty-taloned. It flew back into the air, circled three times before descending sharply again toward the water. Nothing.

“I wonder how it can see through the water?” Nick asked. “You think that they can see th-”

Nick tripped on something that caused him to stumble on the soft sand.

“You okay?” Melissa asked.

Nick looked down at the culprit and it wasn’t a rock or a log. It was the corner of a nearly buried book. He walked over to it, crouched down, and scooped two handfuls of loose sand off the book to dig it out.

The cover was worn and the lettering was in old cursive, which made it difficult to read. It wasn’t a thick book – maybe 50 pages, if that. He blew off all the leftover sand, then showed Melissa.

“What do you think it is?” he said.

“I don’t know,” she responded, squinting to try and read the cover. “It looks old.”

“Looks really old.”

“You think it’s worth anything?”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” Nick laughed. “It’s probably just junk.”

He opened the cover and tried to make out the title page, but many of the letters were faded:

The P  lo  sphy  f    sus     of     Naz

“What’s that last word? Is it something to do with Nazis?” Nick said.

“Does it have a date?”

“Not that I can tell.”

Nick softly flipped the pages and there were cut-out pieces of paper attached throughout the whole book. No writing on the pages. Only cut-out pieces of paper with writing on it. Like somebody cutting words out of a magazine to make a collage. Many of the words were faded – some appeared almost like they were in red – but Nick could tell it everything was in English.

Was it a diary? Nick thought.

Maybe somebody’s scrapbook of favorite pieces of literature?

What the hell was it?

“Whatchu got there, friend?” a raspy voice said behind them.

Nick turned around and there were two men in their thirties. The heavy-set one wore a NASCAR hat, a shirt with the sleeves cut-off and a giant bald eagle draped in the American flag printed on the chest. The skinny one had a Harley Davidson shirt and a hat that said “Born Free, Die Free.” Both of them had a beer in their hand and bulging wad of tobacco in their mouth.

“Oh,” Nick said, startled the men were suddenly behind them because he didn’t hear anybody approaching. “Yeah, not sure. Probably just some junk. Really old book.”

“Now, now, old things ain’t junk,” the heavy-set one said. “What it say on the cover there?”

“I don’t know, it’s hard to read,” Nick said, holding it up for the man to see.

The man’s eyes got big and he looked at the skinny man before spitting brown saliva into the sand.

“Somethin’ good?” the skinny one asked.

The heavy-set one turned to Nick and smiled, showing loose tobacco shreds between his lower teeth and that he was missing his left canine and lateral incisor on the top row.

“You ain’t know what you got?” the heavy-set man said.

“You know what this is?” Nick asked.

“Yes sir,” the man nodded. “As a matter of fact, I do believe I know what it is. You mind if I take a quick peek there – inside and what-not? Make sure I ain’t as confused as a cat in a doghouse.”

Nick handed the book to the man, who wiped his hands thoroughly over his shirt and cargo shorts. The man took a deep breath and then delicately turned the pages. He got to the title page and his eyes got big again.

“Holy dogshit,” the man whispered.

“What is it, Hog?” the skinny man said.

“Doocey, this man right here is the luckiest man on God’s great creation,” Hog said.

“What is it?” Melissa asked.

“This right here,” Hog said, closing the book and holding it up. “Is the original copy of the Jefferson Bible. There weren’t supposed to be no copies that survived. He wrote this before he wrote the other one.”

“The what?” Nick said.

“Jefferson’s Bible, is what they called it. Thomas Jefferson. President and what-not. He cut out pieces of God’s word and put it all together to make something nice. This right here is a miracle of a find, my friends.”

“You’re joking, right?” Nick said, confused more at the man’s knowledge.

“No sir,” Hog said, opening it to the title page. “See this?”

The P  lo  sphy  f    sus     of     Naz

“Jefferson called it The Philosophy of Jesus of Nazareth,” Hog said. “You can look it up on your little phone there, if you want.”

Nick did a quick Google search and then looked up the Wikipedia page. As he was reading about it, Hog spit into the sand again and cleared his throat.

“That’s only the short version,” Hog said. “The title, I mean. Back in that day them titles was a million words, you know? The full title of this one was The Philosophy of Jesus of Nazareth: extracted from the account of his life and doctrines as given by Matthew, Mark, Luke, & John. Being an abridgement of the New Testament for the use of the Indians unembarrassed with matters of fact or faith beyond the level of their comprehensions.”

“What is happening?” Nick said with a confused look, reading the full title on his phone as Hog recited it exactly correct. “Is this like a prank or something? You play tricks on tourists?”

“Why you say that?” Doocey asked.

“Because how the hell does he know that? He just flawlessly listed off a 50-word title word-for-word. You a big Thomas Jefferson fan or is this some sort of set-up?”

“I’m a fan of history,” Hog said. “If you ain’t got no appreciation for history, you is doomed to repeat it, the man once said.”

“He got one of them photography memories,” Doocey said.

“A photographic memory?” Nick asked.

“Yes sir,” Hog answered with a nod. “And you found a wonderful slice of history here. You oughta give this to Monticello or the Smithsonian.”

“Yeah, or sell it,” Nick said, smiling back to Melissa. “We could probably get a fortune for it.”

Hog scoffed and shook his head.

“What?” Nick asked.

“You city folk are something else,” Hog said. “This right here deserves to be in a moosuem, and all you can think about is getting a quick buck.”

“You said it yourself, this is a huge find so we deserve to be compensated for it,” Nick responded.

“Wanna hear somethin’ funny?” Hog smiled.

“What?”

“You know what Jefferson said to Adams about this here?” Hog said, motioning to the book.

“What?”

“Jefferson cut out words the Lord and Savior had said and sorted them all out real good, and he told Adams that this book here would be ‘the most sublime and benevolent code of morals which has ever been offered to man.’”

“Okay?” Nick responded with a confused look. “And?”

“You got any morals, city slicker?”

Nick felt himself getting more and more annoyed and wanted to get rid of these two men. Hog and Doocey. Give me a break, he thought.

“I’m not going to be preached at by some hillbilly, so give us the book back and you have yourself a wonderful rest of your night, Hog.”

“Oh friend, you can’t be so naïve, right?” Hog smirked.

“What?”

“You wasn’t getting this back the moment you said you was gonna sell it for a payday,” Hog said, shaking his head. “This belong to history. Not some expensive little playtoy for you.”

“It’s ours,” Nick said. “We found it.”

“You really think this is gonna be a finders keepers deal?” Hog laughed.

“Give it back,” Melissa snapped.

“Sweetheart, you don’t wanna go down this road, I promise you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nick said, taking a step forward.

“Same goes for you princess,” Hog said to Nick. “Best you two go about your merry way.”

“Or what?” Nick said with his chest out.

“Well, I’d sure hate to see what this could do your head,” Hog said, lifting up his sleeveless t-shirt to show a Colt 45 tucked into his waistband. “Probably ruin the rest of your little vacation.”

Nick took two steps back.

“That’s a good boy,” Hog said. “Now, here’s what’s gonna happen: you go on back to wherever you came from and we’re gonna get this over to the mooseum. You might be tempted to tattle to the coppers, which I would highly suggest you rethink that move. Unless of course, well, are you familiar with what a picana is?”

“No,” Nick shook his head.

“Why don’t you look that up there on Google,” Hog said, pointing to Nick’s phone in his hand. “I’ll give you a hint: it ain’t the slab of meat, neither.”

Nick typed on his phone, then his eyes got big and he gulped when he clicked on the images.

“Do I need to say anything else?” Hog asked.

“No,” Nick said.

“No sir,” Hog emphasized.

“No sir,” Nick echoed.

“See, you city folk don’t got no manners,” Hog smirked. “Weren’t raised right. Now, I hope you enjoy the rest of your trip and I speak for everyone in the great state of Virginia when I thank y’all for your amazing discovery. You can be rest assured it’s going to a good cause for everybody to enjoy. Appreciate it and y’all have a wonderful night now.”

Hog tipped his NASCAR cap to both Nick and Melissa and then motioned his head for Doocey and him to leave. Nick watched the two men slowly walk across the sand and thought what he should do. He didn’t want to immediately call the police because Hog and Doocey might overhear him and come unload that 45 into his head. Or maybe Doocey actually had a picana on him.

The two locals walked so slowly that it gave Nick plenty of time to calm down and ask Melissa what they should do.

They decided to walk back to the beach house they rented. Neither of them said a thing as they packed their suitcases. They ordered a Lyft to the airport and paid extra to change their flight to take a redeye back to Boston.