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Prologue Felicity

Seven Years Old

The water is freezing cold in my hands. It reminds me of when you’re trying to find a specific soda can in the cooler, having to dig through all the ice chips to get to it. My fingers are red at the ends and numb as spring water passes over the rocks in front of me.

The large water jug my mommy uses for this is getting heavier the more it fills up, and I sure am glad for the red wagon I pulled over here. The third wheel screeches loudly and might make someone hear me, but since it’s early enough, I think I’m the only one on the planet that’s awake.

“Whatcha doing?” a Southern drawl calls behind me, and I turn on a dime.

A boy around my age is watching as I fill the jugs with fresh spring water. His messy blond hair covers his eyes a little, and he keeps pushing it back with his free hand, but it falls right back down.

I don’t like lying, so I don’t.

“Borrowing some water,” I say, but borrowing feels like a lie. I don’t plan on giving it back after we use it.

The little caterpillars of his brows dip down low, and for a minute, I think he might call out to his mom. Or maybe say something mean. But he never does.

“Do you need help?” The boy bends down, his plaid green pajama pants getting mud on them from the splashing water, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He doesn’t seem to notice the coldness of the water either.

I don’t have to say yes to his question. He’s already grabbed my second jug and is filling it up with no problem. We don’t say much until he’s lifted both jugs into my wagon. I’m about to leave, but he pulls out a strawberry from his pajama pants and holds it out to me.

“Want one?”

My nose curls. His hands are kind of dirty, but I’m hungry and my mommy says it’s rude to tell people no when they offer stuff. I pick the strawberry from his hand and take a small bite—it’s sweet and sour and reminds me of the candy that my nana used to carry in her back pocket.

“Why don’t you have any shoes on?” He chews on his own strawberry like a dog with a bone. It makes a mess all over his face, but he doesn’t seem to mind that either.

I look down at my bare feet. The tips of my toes are red like my fingers, and they’re cold too.

“I didn’t want to mess my church shoes up.” It’s a long walk over here and there’s a lot of muddy spots. Plus, they’re the only ones left that fit, so I can’t ruin them. Mommy says it’s because I’m growing like a weed and tells me to stop. I tried a couple times—squished down into little balls at night and squeezed my knees so tight I could hardly breathe. I measured and I was the same height the next day. Maybe even taller. But I didn’t tell her that.

I look down at his feet—they’re bare too. His toes aren’t red, but they are kind of funny looking. Dirty with little cuts and bruises like he’s always getting into trouble.

“Why don’t you have shoes on?” I ask.

“I live over there.” He points to the big, fancy house down the gravel road. There’s a golden porch light on and four big trucks out in front. “My mom doesn’t mind if I’m barefoot as long as I’m not near the cows.”

“You live there?”

I can count at least ten windows, and that’s just from the front. I can’t even imagine what the inside is like. I bet he has an elevator. And a big closet. And a dishwasher.

He lifts his shoulders in a funny way, and his blond hair falls back down. “Yeah. Why? Where do you live?”

“Meadow Springs.” I point to the general direction of my neighborhood—it’s just through the dirt road and across the highway.

“That sounds nice.”

Does it?

“Can I come play at your house?” he asks. “I’ll help you take your water.”

“Um, probably not. Mommy is still asleep.” She sleeps a lot now. “She might be mad if I bring strangers over.”

“I’m not a stranger. I gave you a strawberry.”

He did do that.

“What’s your name?” I ask. Strangers don’t know each other’s names.