"You promised you'd come back for me."
Daniel tried to speak.
His lips formed the beginning of a name.
And then the garage disappeared into darkness.
Forty-six years earlier, the same town had seemed much larger.
Bellweather sat among wooded hills in the northeastern United States, where narrow roads followed the creek through an old railroad community before climbing toward a lake surrounded by low mountains.
There were fewer than four thousand residents then.
Everybody knew the names of the local merchants, the school principal, and the families living in the large houses near the center of town.
Children rode bicycles without worrying much about traffic.
They bought ice cream at the corner drugstore.
They played baseball in vacant lots.
And when the summer heat became unbearable, they wandered toward Bellweather Creek, where an old wooden bridge crossed the water at the edge of town.
The bridge had been built decades earlier.
Its planks were uneven.
Its iron railing had begun to rust.
A few of the posts leaned at strange angles.
But to the children of Bellweather, it was a place of freedom.
The road ended nearby.
The trees grew thick.
And adults rarely came there unless they were fishing or looking for someone who was late for supper.
Daniel Mercer was nine years old when he first saw the girl sitting on the railing.
It was early June.
School had ended for the day.
The air smelled of fresh grass and warm earth.
Daniel had walked nearly two miles from his house because he did not want to go home.
His father had been drinking the previous night.
Again.
The shouting had begun after dinner and lasted until nearly midnight.
Daniel's mother had tried to keep the peace.
His father had slammed a cupboard door hard enough to crack the wood.
Then he accused everyone in the house of being ungrateful.
By morning, the man was asleep on the couch, and Daniel's mother looked too exhausted to ask her son why he was leaving so early.
So Daniel walked.
He carried a sandwich wrapped in wax paper and a small pocketknife his grandfather had given him.
He wore worn sneakers, faded jeans, and a striped shirt with a torn collar.
He had intended to sit beside the creek alone.
Instead, he found a girl already occupying his favorite place.
She was thin, with dark hair falling around her shoulders, large greenish eyes, and a white summer dress that looked expensive enough to make him uncomfortable.
Her shoes sat beside her.
Her bare feet swung above the water.
She looked toward the opposite bank without moving.
Daniel recognized her immediately.
Nora Whitfield.
Everybody knew the Whitfield family.
They lived in the enormous white house on Maple Avenue, behind iron gates and a garden that always looked as though somebody had measured the flowers with a ruler.
Her father owned several businesses.
Her mother had died that spring.
Daniel knew because the whole town talked about it.
People lowered their voices whenever Nora passed.
Teachers gave her sympathetic smiles.
Adults asked how she was doing in the careful tone people used when they did not really want an answer.
Now she sat alone on the bridge, staring into the creek.
Daniel stopped several feet away.
She looked toward him.
"You're the boy from the railroad tracks."
He frowned.
"So?"
"You're not supposed to be here."
He glanced around.
"Neither are you."
She considered that.
Then moved a few inches along the railing.
It was the smallest invitation he had ever received.
Daniel climbed onto the bridge and sat beside her.
For several minutes, they said nothing.
Below them, the water moved over smooth stones.
A bird called from somewhere in the trees.
Nora looked toward his sandwich.
"What's that?"
"Lunch."
"What kind?"
"Peanut butter."
"Any jelly?"
"No."
She nodded.
"That's unfortunate."
Daniel frowned.
"What's wrong with peanut butter?"