As the crow flies, sixteen-year-old James McClurg lived 140 miles southwest of Seattle, in the small town of Yakima, Washington. Between the farmlands of Yakima and the bustling city, lay the Cascade Mountain range and the dormant volcano, Mt. Rainier.

He lived with his parents and fourteen-year old sister in a modest, three-bedroom home surrounded by four acres of land. An array of large trees and well-kept gardens gracefully surrounded the house and lined the two-lane driveway.

Seated in a well-worn easy chair and engrossed in a magazine, James was startled by both the first and the second Seattle earthquake. It was little more than a hard jolt each time, but the foundation of the house creaked and his cat dashed under his bed. With light brown hair and blue eyes, James cautiously got up, walked to his bedroom window and looked toward Mt. Rainier. He saw no rising smoke and no ash filling the hot summer sky. Whatever happened, Mt. Rainier had not erupted -- not yet anyway. He sat back down and returned to his reading.

His was a typically cluttered teenage boy's room with a life sized poster of Michael Jordan on the wall, dirty dishes on shelves, scattered clothing, an unmade bed, a baseball on the floor, a basketball next to his chair, an exercise bike, and a CD player. Suddenly, his bedroom door flew open and his sister, Heather, burst in, "Seattle had an earthquake. It's on the news."