She looked up. Her eyes were the color of the harbor before a storm. “I’m looking for the Singing Bridge,” she said. Her voice was too steady for a child alone in the rain.
She stood under the broken awning of the old pharmacy, barefoot in a thin dress, hair plastered to her face. She couldn’t have been more than nine. Leo stopped. Baskin was small—everyone knew everyone—but he didn’t know her. Baskin
That’s when he saw the girl.
Halfway across, she stopped. The creek below ran fast and black. “You’ve been here before,” she said. Not a question. She looked up