PROLOGUE
ARIA | AGE 8
Everythinggood in my life happens in the woods.
That’s where I’m headed.
I tie the bedsheet with all my favorite things in it to a stick I found on my last woods trip. Hitching it over my shoulder, I shout back into my granny’s house.
“I’m running away and I’m never coming back!”
Granny had asked me to clean up my leaf collection, and when I didn’t obey in a timely fashion, she swept them all into the kitchen trash. The kitchen trash with this morning’s gross breakfast potatoes and ketchup and stuff in it.
Her crappy little dog barks in my wake, the one that jumped up and bit me on the dang hip somehow. I slow my pace at the edge of the yard, waiting to see if Granny or Gramps chase after me. No such luck.
No matter. I’m at home in the woods anyway. I’ve become the feral little forest troll that everyone at school pretends I am. I’m a rebel without a cause, a vagabond headed for my brave new future.
I jog the half mile or so to the woods entry, a path worn to dirt by my frequent trips into the woods. By the time I hit the trail that leads to Brodie’s and my favorite spot, the hot day hassweat crawling down my neck. I crest the hill, finding him like I so often do, skipping rocks down the creek. It’s narrow enough that you could jump across it here, so it’s not wide enough to skip a rock across it—only down it.
Brodie looks up at the sound of my footfalls, his warm brown eyes crinkling at the edges under a shock of shaggy red hair. “Where you going, Ari?”
While I’m momentarily distracted by my friend, I remember that I’m supposed to be upset. I stomp my foot and huff before taking off down the ridge.
“Wait up!” he calls. “I found a crawdad!”
“I don’t have time for crawdads,” I shoot back over my shoulder. “I’m running away!”
I’m not looking where I’m going, letting muscle memory guide me—until, in an almost cartoonish way, I skid to a stop to avoid hitting a hump in the path. My stick pack goes flying, all the contents of my makeshift bag scattering to the forest floor. Why did I have to make a sheet on a stick like in old movies instead of taking my school backpack? This was an amateur move.
“Whoa, there!”
The hump talked?
A man with a tiny white Afro rises to his full height, a guy I recognize from church. “Mr. Hines?”
He examines a bright orange mushroom in his hand, dusting some dirt off the bottom. “You’re the Johnsons’ grandbaby, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Aria.”
He finally focuses on me, examining the contents of my pack spilled on the ground. He flicks his chin toward the wreckage. “Let’s pick up your things and you can help me with my foraging.”
I’m shocked. I thought for sure I was about to get punished. Maybe the foraging is a punishment, but it sounds fun. And he seems too peaceful to be doling out punishments anytime soon.
He stoops to gather a few of the items, then looks back at where I kneel in the dirt. “Come on, now. We gotta move fast before the slugs get ‘em.”
We get everything put back in my pack and he hands me a basket from the ground next to him. I’m not sure if I’ve been invited to some exclusive club.
“Mr. Hines, what kind of mushrooms are these?”
“These,” he says, opening his hand again to show them off, “are chanterelles. And you can call me Richard.”
He drops the mushroom from his hand down into the basket.
Twigs snap behind us and Brodie’s face comes into view.
“What are you doing?” he calls.
“We’re picking mushrooms!” I shout, trying not to let too much enthusiasm into my voice. Brodie is two years older than me in school, and even though he’s my friend, I’m desperate to maintain my cool status with him. Is he going to think I’m weird for hanging out with some random old man?
