Orville and Wilbur's gimcrack toy is here, forever flying overhead. To some who travel now in craft that tremble on the lip of sound, brown paper wed to wire and sticks of wood only invites a quiet look. They want to touch sleek metal skins, hear rocket engines roar. But one boy stays behind. Arms outstretched like wings, mind poised at the top of Kill Devil Hill, he begins his run. He feels the lift now, hears the steady chop of engines. His icy fingers reach for the controls as the Earth lets him go to fly with astonished gulls above the frozen beach.