This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2020 by Rainbow Rowell

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Amazon Original Stories, Seattle

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eISBN: 9781542025041

Cover design by Micaela Alcaino

Trolls live through the telling of tales and the passing on of stories, weaving them together, then letting them flow separately again, as streams, rivers, tree roots, and branches do.

—Trolls, by Brian and Wendy Froud

Once upon a time, in a land, there lived a boy . . .

Well, he was a boy, but now he’s a man. Tall and strong and full of purpose. With middling blue eyes and middling brown hair, and a smile for almost everyone he meets.

He has work that makes him feel useful.

He has a house that makes him feel safe.

And he’s lucky to live right along the road—the long, wide road. He can see the smoothest part of it from his window.

He may as well be a prince.

One warm January day, the man was walking along the wide road from his safe house to his useful work when he dropped his phone over a bridge. “Damn it all to darkness!” He hadn’t even noticed the bridge.

The man leaned over the railing to see if he could spot his phone. He brought his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun.

He didn’t see the phone. But he saw two eyes looking up at him from the mud.

“Oh,” he said. “Hey.”

“Hi,” the two eyes said. Well. The mouth below the two eyes said it. Whatever it was down there pushed some muddy hair out of its face to see him better.

“I sort of dropped my phone,” he said.

“Oh.” It sounded like maybe a feminine-type thing. “That sucks.”

“Yeah . . .”

“Let me see if I can find it.” The muddy thing sloshed around a bit, turning up some pieces of concrete and an empty Dasani bottle. “Oh no . . .” It held something up. “Is this your phone?”

“I can’t tell,” the young man said. “What kind is it?”

The mudthing shook the phone in its handthing. “It’s the new kind with the three cameras.”

The man sighed. “Yeah. That’s mine.”

“Sorry.”

“No, that’s okay. It’s my fault. I was distracted.”

“You have to be careful on bridges . . .”

“Yeah, that’s what my mother always tells me.”

The mudthing rose up a bit out of the muck. “Do you want me to throw it up to you?”

“Yeah, that’d be cool. Maybe I could put it in some rice overnight . . .”

“I’ve heard they sell magic beans . . .”

“I’ve heard that, too.” He held both hands out.

The mudthing tossed his phone up—but not nearly far enough. It fell back into the gunk. “Sorry, let me try again. Webbed fingers, you know.”

The phone flew up into the air again. The man leaned farther out over the railing, his feet lifting off the smooth paving stones. The phone fell through his grasping fingers.

“Sorry!” she called up.

“No, that was me,” he said. “Try again?”

He caught it the third time, and they both laughed out loud. “Got it!” he said. “Thank you!”

“Yeah, sure, happy to help.”

He tried to wipe some of the mud from his phone. Better not turn it on just yet.

“You’re lucky the river dried up,” the mudthing said. “You would have lost it for sure in the current.”

“Yeah, no kidding . . .” He looked down at her again. She was still mostly covered in mud. Her face disappeared when she blinked. (Though he supposed her face disappeared when he blinked, too . . . This was more thinking than the man was used to doing on his way to work.) “I guess I’ll get going,” he said. “Thanks again.”

“Anytime,” she said.

“Well, I hope not.”

“Ha ha,” she said. “Seriously.”

He was walking again. He couldn’t see her anymore. “Have a great day!” he shouted over his shoulder.

“Watch where you’re walking!” she shouted back.

The walk to work felt longer without his phone to distract him. This is good for me, he thought. I always mean to stop and smell the flowers. Or at least to notice them.

All the best flowers grew by the road.

They grew all year long, now.

The next day, the young man woke in his soft bed, in his safe house. He hurried out onto the road. (He liked the road, everyone did. He was lucky to live so close.)

This time when he got to the bridge, he tucked his phone—it still worked, thank goodness—into his back pocket. He still felt like it might fly out over the railing, isn’t that crazy? He kept touching his pocket to make sure it was there.

Thinking of it made him think of the mudthing. He wondered if she was down there today. It’s not like she just hangs out, waiting for people to drop their phones, he thought. But he stopped anyway in the middle of the bridge. He leaned out over the railing. “Hello?”

There was a slopping sound beneath him.

“Oh,” she said. “It’s you. Hello.” She lifted herself up out of the riverbed, pushing some of the mud away from her face. “Did you drop something?”

“No . . . ,” he said.

“Do you want to? Maybe a volleyball this time? We could play a little catch.”

He laughed. “I just thought I’d say hello.”

“Oh . . . That’s nice. Hello.”

“So, um . . .” He cleared his throat. He hadn’t really thought this through. “Do you live here? Under the bridge?”

“I guess I do,” she said. “Do you live up there?”

“Along the road,” he said.

“That’s lucky.”

“It is.” He brought his hand up to shield his eyes again. “Are you—I mean, I hope this isn’t impolite—”

“Go ahead.”

“Are you a troll?”

She laughed. “Because I live under a bridge?”

“Well, yeah,” he said. “I don’t mean to—”

“No, it’s okay. I guess I am a troll. I live under bridges and call out to innocent boys.”

“I’m not—I mean, you didn’t call out to me.”

“I will next time,” she said. “Just to say hello.”

“That would be nice,” he said. Which was the wrong thing. He should have said something jokey.

She cleared her throat. He guessed she had a throat.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose I should go to work.”

“To your job?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you like it?”

“I really do,” he said. “It makes me feel useful.”

“What is it?”

“Oh. It’s kind of hard to explain. It’s like—I monitor a section of the road. It’s maintenance. Resource management. There’s a little bit of graphic design.”

“That does sound useful,” she said. “For people who use the road.”

“It is!” he said. “Well, anyway . . . it was nice talking to you.”

“You, too.”

He walked away from the ledge, smiling, and took his phone out of his pocket.

“Hello!” The man leaned over the railing.

He waited.

“Hello?” he called again.

The womanish thing rose up out of the mud. “Oh, hello. I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t sure you’d be around this time of day.”

“I’m here pretty much all the time.”

“Oh. That’s nice. I mean . . .” He faltered. “Is it nice? It’s nice for me. To find you here.”

She smiled at that. He could see her teeth. She had teeth.

“I brought you something,” he said, “to thank you.”

“You already said thank you.”

“Well, I know, but I was stopping for coffee anyway. There’s a Starbucks just down the road.”

“You brought me Starbucks?”

“Do you not like Starbucks?”

“No, of course, I do. Just, um . . .” She was looking up at him from her patch of mud.

He looked down at his hands, at the two paper cups. “Oh,” he said. “I see what you’re getting at . . . I could drop it, I guess?”

“You could,” she said. “That seems like something you would do.”

He laughed. She laughed, too.

“I wish I could just bring it down to you . . . ,” he said.

“Too bad this isn’t a wishing well,” she said, another joke. Then she said, “Actually this might have been a wishing well, once upon a time.”

“I can’t believe I was so stupid,” the man said. (He’s not a prince, but he might as well be.) “I’d bring it down to you if I could, if there was a path.”

“I believe you,” she said.

He believed her.

“What are you doing?” she shouted.

It was the next day, at the same time, and the man was climbing over the ornamental hedge that separated the road from everything else.

“I’m just trying to get over these shrubs.”

“Be careful, they just sprayed!”

“I’m being careful,” he said, snagging his pants on some thorns.

“You’re going to spill your Starbucks,” she said.

“It’s your Starbucks,” he said.

“Well, then you really shouldn’t spill it.”

He laughed. His foot was stuck in some branches. It didn’t hurt. The thorns didn’t hurt either. But it was embarrassing. The whole thing was embarrassing. He felt silly. “This is why no one leaves the road,” he said to himself. “Maybe I’ll just leave the coffee here for you?” he called. He couldn’t quite see her from here, from the middle of the hedge. He’d never really seen her.

“I won’t be able to reach it,” she said. “You may as well take it to work—maybe someone else will drink it.”

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “I guess it’s the thought that counts?”

“Did your mother tell you that?”

“Did you come back to visit that hedge?”

It was the next day. He was midway through the bushes. She was already laughing at him.

“I’m bringing you Starbucks!” he shouted.

“I’ve heard that before,” she said.

“Ha ha!” He kept working his way through, letting the thorns catch in his sleeve. He’d intentionally worn his cheapest sweater.

“Even when you get past the hedge, you’re going to have to slosh down through mud.”

“It’s okay. I wore my worst clothes.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Ugh, sorry. I’m just—” He felt his foot land in the mud on the other side of the hedge. “Ha!” He pulled his other foot though the shrub. “Aha!”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah! I’m good. I’m—” He was off the road. He couldn’t see it anymore. It was just on the other side of the hedge. He could go back. Maybe he should go back?

“You didn’t spill the coffee.”

He turned toward her voice. He could see her better now. Could see her person-like shape, leaning on a rock at the edge of the old riverbed.

He walked toward her. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she said.

He was standing above her now. “I, um—”

She reached her hand-like thing toward him.

“Plain or vanilla?” he asked.

“Give me the one you’d want yourself,” she said.

He laughed and gave her the vanilla. “That’s very selfish of you.”

“Oh, please, you get Starbucks every day.”

I could bring you coffee every day, he almost said. (And the thing is, he really could. It wouldn’t take much. This hadn’t taken much.) (He didn’t say it.)

“You could sit down,” she said.

He looked down at the mud.

“Go on, you’re already wearing your worst pants.”

“That’s true.”

He sat down carefully, a few feet away from her, away from the center of the riverbed, where the mud was dark and thick. She wiped some sludge away from her lips to sip her coffee. She had lips.

He’d hoped the mud was just good, clean mud. But the smell was terrible now that he was sitting in it.

“The river smelled better,” she said. He must have been making a face.

“No,” he said, “it’s fine.” He sort of remembered the river. They’d needed it for the road. Whatever the road needed, they took.

She took another sip of the coffee. There was whipped cream on her lip. And mud on the lid. “That’s really lovely,” she said.

“I’m glad you like it,” he said.

She took another drink. “It’s seriously good.”

“I know.”

“It’s amazing that you can have it every day.”

“Some people say it’s a waste of money,” he said. “But I always feel like it’s worth it. Small, good things are worth it.”

“Totally,” she said. “Treat yourself.” She looked up at him. The mud was sliding down her shoulders, clinging to her long hair. (Hair, too.) “Thank you,” she said, looking down at her coffee, “Adam.”

His stomach pitched. His face fell. “How . . . how do you know my name?”

She smiled. “It was written on the cup.”

“I . . . That’s not . . . I wasn’t supposed to tell you my name.”

“No,” she said, “it’s fine. You’re thinking of fairies.”

“And dwarves,” he said.

“Right, dwarves.”

“And elves.”

“But not bridge trolls,” she said. “Really, Adam, I’m, like, the only creature you’re safe giving your name to.”

He laughed. He was embarrassed. And relieved. (Though not completely.) “What about you?”

“I told you, I can’t hurt you.”

“What’s your name, I mean.”

“I can’t tell you that,” she said between sips. “Everyone knows you can’t trust princes.”

“I’m not a prince.”

He may as well be.

“Those aren’t your worst pants,” she said, tilting her head to the side to examine him.

“My worst pants are in the dryer,” he replied. “Vanilla or Cinnamon Dolce?”

“Which one do you like best?”

He handed her the Cinnamon Dolce. “I can’t stay too long, I’m running late.”

“What do you do up there?” she asked.

“I already told you,” he said.

“Not really . . .”

“What do you do down here?”

She shrugged, settling back into the mud with her latte. “Nothing useful.”

“That’s not true,” he said. “Sometimes you throw phones into the air.”

She tilted her head. “You think I’m at my most useful when I’m being useful to you?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t know what to think.”

He didn’t.

“Tell me about the road,” she said one day. It was a beautiful February day. Sunny. Every day was sunny. Though some people said it would have to rain again, eventually.

“I love the road,” he said. “Everyone does.”

“Is it very smooth?”

“So smooth.”

“And wide?”

“So wide,” he said, smiling. “And it smells wonderful.”

“That’s very rude, Adam.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. I know what it smells like down here. I have a nose.” She did, in fact.

“And there are flowers by the road,” he said, “fewer than before—but still the best flowers. There are no flowers anywhere that you can’t see from the road.” He wished that she could see it.

“What’s the best part?” she asked.

“The best part?”

“The best part, besides the Starbucks.”

“I almost hate to tell you this, but there are so many Starbucks.”

She sighed and laid her head down on her rock. Sometimes, she’d sit up on the rock. He liked that. She looked more like a something then—and less like part of the mud.

Today she was lying in the mud, with her head and arms on the rock, like it took too much effort to sit up any farther. “What’s the very best part of the road?” she asked.

The man—we may as well call him Adam, he already gave up his name—stopped to really think. Finally, he said, “The road goes everywhere you’d want to go. Everywhere you’d think of going. It never ends. And you’re never alone there. And everything you’d ever want is right there on the road.”

“That’s not the one best part,” she said. “That’s too many things.”

“Fine,” he said, “okay—the best part of being on the road is that when you’re on it, it’s all that you can see.”

Her eyes were closed.

“That probably doesn’t make sense to you,” he said.

“No, it does.” She wrinkled her nose, and the mud on her face cracked.

“What is that?”

“Strawberry Acaí Refresher.”

“It’s pink!”

“It’s seasonal.”

“Well, hand it over, Adam. Don’t be shy.”

Adam still felt shy here. He handed her the drink and settled down on the riverbank. It still hadn’t rained—it never really rained, something to do with the road. He could sit much closer to her now without ruining his khakis.

“This is delicious,” she said. “Why didn’t you get one for yourself?”

“I’m cutting back,” he said.

“On Strawberry Acaí Refreshers?”

“On carbs, mostly.”

“Ah. Bridge trolls don’t really have to worry about carbs.”

“Lucky,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, “I’m so lucky.”

He laughed, uncomfortably. He didn’t really know what bridge trolls worried about; he was a little afraid to ask. (No, that’s not right—he wasn’t afraid, really. He just didn’t want to know.) “I wish I knew your name,” he said.

“What do you call me in your head?”

He blushed. “That’s presumptuous.”

She sipped loudly at her drink. It was already empty. “So much ice,” she murmured.

“She,” he said. “I call you she. Her.”

“Now who’s being presumptuous,” she said, her tongue hugging every round consonant. (Her tongue.)

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” she said. “You’re right. Lucky guess.” She tipped the ice down onto the mud, over what was surely her bottom half. “Do they sell water at Starbucks?”

“No,” he said.

She seemed disappointed. “Oh.”

“I mean, I guess they do sell bottled water, but they’ll just give you a cup of water if you ask. Filtered.”

“Oh.”

“I could bring you water tomorrow.”

“Instead of a pink drink?”

“I could bring you both. They have drink carriers.”

“Is it true, what they say about the road?” She (she, she, she) had drunk half her venti water, then poured the rest between her chest and the rock. She was thick under all the thick mud. He could almost see her.

She slid up a bit on the rock.

“What do they say?” he asked.

“That the wizard’s crows watch you at every moment.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s true.”

“Even in your houses?”

“Yeah, I guess so. I don’t really think about it.”

“How could you not think about that?”

“They’re just crows,” he said. “You get used to it.”

She shuddered. “They’re not just crows. They’re like . . . flying eyeballs.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like the wizard can watch all of us at once.”

“I suppose.”

“And what’s he going to see if he’s looking at me? Me, sleeping? Me, making a sandwich?”

“So you like being watched by a dark wizard?”

“We don’t know that he’s dark.”

“I mean, his armies of crows seem like a clue . . .”

“Look, I don’t like the crows. They’re just . . . It’s such a small price to pay to live on the road.”

“I’ll take your word for it, Adam.”

“Oh, listen to you!” He was flustered. “I wish I knew your name—I’d win more of these arguments if I knew your name!”

That made her laugh. (He did make her laugh. At least once every day.) “Fine,” she said, “the crows are good. The crows are grand. If they see you choking, they can caw for help.”

“That’s true, you know.”

“So the crows aren’t the worst part of living on the road. What is?”

“What do you mean?”

“What’s the very worst part of living on the road?”

“We weren’t talking about that.”

“We are now.” She’d finished her pink drink, too, and was chewing on the ice.

“I guess, the worst part . . .” It wasn’t good to talk about the bad parts. (And not because the crows were listening as well as watching.) (Not just because of that.) “You shouldn’t focus on the bad things,” he said. “Because you draw them toward you. Happiness is about focusing on good things and drawing those things toward you.”

She closed her eyes tight. She wrinkled her nose. Bits of dust fell on her cheeks.

“What—” he started.

“Shhhh!” she shushed.

His voice dropped to a whisper: “What are you doing?”

So did hers: “I’m focusing on good things.”

“Like what?”

“Rain.”

“Rain?”

“Good things,” she whispered. “Rain. Mud. You.”

His heart jumped. (He had a heart.) “Me?”

She closed her eyes even tighter. “You . . . coming back tomorrow, with Starbucks.”

“Behold the power of positive thinking!” she shouted before he was even over the hedge. He’d worn a gap in the shrub there and beaten a path down to the riverbed.

“Hello, you,” he said, sitting down with a drink carrier.

“Hello, Adam.”

“I brought two Frappuccinos, and before you ask which one I’d pick for myself, they’re both caramel. Because I would pick caramel.”

“Hmm.” She stuck out her lower lip. (It wasn’t a surprise; he knew she had lips.) (It was still good, though.) “I like having a choice.”

He handed her a caramel Frappuccino. “But you always pick the one I like best.”

“That’s part of what makes it delicious! The microaggression.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Well, I brought you something else.” He took a venti cup of water from the drink carrier and dumped it on her.

She gasped.

It ran nearly-not-dirty streaks in her possibly black (possibly dark green?) (or a kind of brown?) hair.

And then she laughed more than he’d ever seen her laugh before. “You made me spill my Frappuccino!” she said, still laughing, tears burning tracks through the dried mud on her cheeks.

“You can have mine,” he said.

She took it. She drank it all. She licked the whipped cream out of the domed lid. Then she dropped the cup into the riverbed.

“Hey, give me that,” he said. “I’ll recycle it.”

“Oh, Adam.” She laughed until her cheeks were sticky.

He was lying on his back with his head in the dirt. He couldn’t even see her like this. There were crows circling overhead. It didn’t matter, there were always crows.

“Adam?”

He felt something tugging at his foot.

When he sat up, he saw that his shoelace was undone. She’d never touched him before. Or his shoelaces.

He raised himself up on his elbows to look at her. She’d pulled herself to the edge of the riverbed. He’d never seen her so far out of the mud. It cracked and puckered around her.

“Hey,” he said, “don’t do that.”

“What’s wrong?” Her face looked strained. All this effort seemed painful.

“Don’t do that,” he said. “Get back.”

She huddled back into the most fetid part of the riverbed. Away from him, away from her rock. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t bring coffee,” he said.

“It’s okay, I don’t need coffee. Tell me.”

Maybe he should just tell her. Maybe he could . . . “There was a Tragedy on the road today.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s okay,” he said. And it was okay. It would be okay. He was okay. “Tragedies just happen sometimes,” he said. (It was what people said after a Tragedy.)

“Yes,” she agreed. “Some things are unavoidable.”

“Yes,” he said. But that wasn’t true. “I mean, no. It’s not like that. Tragedies on the road happen even when they don’t have to.”

She was still looking at him. She was still confused.

“They could be avoided,” he explained. “But we don’t avoid them.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t explain it!” he shouted at her. (He’d never really shouted at her.) “It’s part of living on the road! It’s a small price to pay!”

“Okay, Adam.”

“You live under a bridge!”

“I know.”

“You wouldn’t understand!”

“Fine, I don’t understand!”

He stood up; he scrambled up the side of the dry riverbed. “I’m going to get coffee.”

“Is Starbucks even open? The Tragedy—”

“Starbucks is always open!”

“I’m sorry I shouted at you,” Adam said.

She was lying in the darkest part of the mud. If she thought he couldn’t see her, she was wrong. He’d gotten really good at seeing her.

“I brought Frappuccinos . . .”

He walked to the edge of the riverbed and set down a drink carrier and an armful of snacks. There were chocolate-dipped graham crackers. And bagel balls with cream cheese in the middle. And special coffee-fighting breath mints.

Then he sat back from the pile. In case she didn’t want to come anywhere near him. “I got Java Chip and Midnight Mint Mocha. I’d pick the mint.”

She was lying on her back. He could see the mud rising and cracking with her breath.

“The worst part of living on the road,” he said, as evenly as he could, “isn’t the crows. Or the Collapses—you’ve probably heard about the Collapses. It isn’t even the Tragedies . . .”

Her eyes were closed.

“The worst part of living on the road,” he said, not very evenly, “is that you can’t fall down. If you fall down, you fall off.” No, that wasn’t true. He’d never lied to her. “If you fall down, they push you off. If someone falls, we push—”

Adam leaned forward. His elbows were on his knees, his head was hanging. He was—he couldn’t stop—

He heard her dragging herself through what was left of the sludge. A heavy slither.

He didn’t look up. He didn’t want her to see him like this.

She pulled herself between his ankles.

She rested her head on the ground beneath his tears.

“There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Coffee first,” she said, “then talk.”

He was hurrying down the path, skidding on the gravel. He was late. He’d been getting something ready.

She was in the middle of the riverbed, where there was still a little mud. Her arms were reaching out to him. “Remember yesterday when I said I don’t need coffee? That was wrong—I do need coffee. You can never stop bringing me coffee, Adam. I’ve just cursed you, sorry.”

He held out two iced drinks. “I didn’t think bridge trolls could curse people.”

She took the macchiato. “Hmm. I guess you’re right—that’s fairies, isn’t it? Why do fairies get all the fun?”

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to keep coming. That wasn’t a real curse.”

“I know. I come because I want to come.”

“Good.” She started to burrow back into her patch of muck.

“Wait—” He caught her by the wrist. (It was undoubtedly a wrist.)

Her eyes whipped up. Her lips pulled back. She hissed.

Adam let go—but he didn’t look away. He sat down in the mud with her. “Please wait. I want to talk to you . . . This is where I would say your name if I knew it. For emphasis.”

“So noted,” she said. She was still sort of hissing.

“I would say your name, and then I would say—I come here every day, because I want to come here. Because I want to see you.”

“I know that. Adam.”

“You do?”

“Well, I didn’t figure you enjoyed the smell. Or the view.”

(The view from the riverbed was dismal. The fact that it hasn’t been mentioned yet only proves that point; it was exactly the sort of thing you couldn’t see from the road.)

“I have a house,” he said, getting back on track. She was always pulling him off track.

“You told me about it once. You said it was safe.”

“Yes. I have a safe house with a soft bed. I have a warm hearth. Fresh bread, every day. Running water.”

She’d pulled her arm away, but she was still there, peeking out at him from behind long, dirt-caked ropes of hair.

“It’s right on the road,” he said. “The smoothest part of it.”

“You’re very lucky,” she said.

“You could be lucky!” He hadn’t meant to shout it. “Darling . . . ,” he whispered. “I could make you lucky.”

She was hidden behind the ropes. “You shouldn’t call me that.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d tell me your name.”

She was being very still. Adam understood that he should be still, too. That they were both trying not to crack.

She wrapped her finger-like things around his ankle. They really were webbed. “Adam,” she said, “I can’t live on the road. I’m a bridge troll.”

“I could build a bridge,” he said. He wasn’t sure where.

“Don’t be stupid,” she said.

“Don’t be mean.”

“I’m a bridge troll!”

“What do bridge trolls even do?” Adam demanded.

She wrapped her other hand around his other ankle.

He reached out to touch her cheek. (It felt like silt. But it was certainly a cheek.)

“We eat stones!” she hissed. “And children’s bones! But mostly we trick men into our clutches.”

“Fine,” Adam said, “I’m tricked!”

Her fingers were so tight around his ankles. “I can’t live on the road with you!”

“Because of the crows?”

“The crows?! No.”

“You made me feel weak because of the crows.”

“Oh, Adam, you are weak. Sometimes it’s the thing I like best about you. You’re so fucking soft.”

He rubbed his fingers along her cheek, pushing through the dirt, wanting to see what was underneath.

“It isn’t the crows,” she said.

“Is it the Bouts of Delirium?”

“You’ve never mentioned the Bouts of Delirium.”

“I was going to mention them, when you agreed to live with me. I was going to warn you about everything. I wanted to show you the road first. So you’d understand.”

She was letting him scrape the muck away from her cheek. She was reaching her fingers up the cuffs of his jeans.

“Adam, you know what the road is doing, don’t you?”

“I know more about the road than you do. I grew up there!”

“Then you know,” she said, “that the road is killing everything.”

He hadn’t expected her to say that. Maybe you didn’t expect her to say that. Magical creatures are usually more cryptic.

“Not everything,” Adam said.

She laughed. (He did make her laugh. At least once a day.)

“Everything,” she said, “eventually.”

“But not today,” he said. This felt like an important thing to say. This felt like the right thing to say, and it must have been at least a little right, because she was clutching at the back of his calves now and pulling herself up between his legs.

“This is why you should come live with me on the road,” he said. (He was begging, really.) “Because the road will be the last thing to die. And until it dies, it will be so safe. And so warm. And so easy.”

“Adam.” She fell forward on his chest. He shifted his arms to catch her—to pull her up, his hands on either side of her rib cage. She was heavy in his arms, not as slick as she’d once been, colder than he expected.

“My love,” he said. (If only she’d tell him her name, he wouldn’t be this embarrassing.)

“I can’t live with you,” she said.

“You can,” he whispered. He tried to hiss it, but his tongue wasn’t built for sibilance. “I want you.”

“My love,” she said, and she didn’t even have an excuse to sound embarrassing. “Go home. Come back tomorrow. Bring me coffee.”

“The coffee seems silly now,” he said. “I would have brought you gold. I could have brought you frankincense and myrrh—I know where to find them. You can get them lots of places up there.”

“Come back tomorrow,” she said, “and bring me something sweet. Bring me something dear that you didn’t have to fight for.”

Adam left.

But first he cried.

He didn’t go back to work—what was the point? He went back home and climbed into his clean, soft bed without changing out of his muddy clothes.

He closed his eyes. He focused hard. On good things: rain, her.

Eventually, he slept.

It was raining when Adam woke up. It had been so long since it rained.

My mother was right, he thought. Good things come to good people.

He squeezed through the hedge and nearly lost his balance on the other side. The ground was wet. He’d brought lattes today. She might like something hot.

It was raining hard; Adam may have focused too much. Everything that had been dry and dusty was wet and running. Even the river had come back to life, a muddy stream rushing under the bridge.

“Hello!” Adam shouted. “I’m here!”

He looked out to the center of the channel, where she liked to wait for him. The last place to dry out, the first place to get wet.

“I’m here,” he called out again. “I’ve got a Peppermint Mocha and a Chestnut Praline. Not only would I choose the mint, but I actually hate the chestnut. That’s a full-on aggression!”

She didn’t answer. He couldn’t see her. It was raining too hard. And the wind was blowing.

Adam sat down at the edge of the riverbed and waited. The coffee got cold.

“Hello!” he shouted.

He was standing on the bridge, leaning over the railing. The rain was still coming down. The river was so high it had devoured his path along the bank.

The Starbucks closest to Adam’s house was closed. But the one down the road was open. He’d brought her hot coffee with cream and sugar.

“Hello!” he shouted.

Had she been swept away? Or drowned? Had she left to find a different bridge?

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. For a second he thought it might be her.

It wasn’t. It was an older woman, wearing a fashionable raincoat. “What are you doing?” she asked him, her eyes wide and fearful. “It’s slippery—you’ll fall!”

Adam smiled at her. “Thank you. I’ll be careful.”

He turned back to the river and stopped smiling. He leaned farther over the rail. “Are you there?”

He didn’t bring coffee today.

The river was lapping at the edge of the bridge. Adam was alone there. Everyone else had taken shelter or was looking for higher ground; his mother said she’d found some. He held on to the railing.

“I’m here!” he shouted.

And then he held his phone out over the side. (This wasn’t a very big sacrifice; it had been days since he’d had service.) (He would have dropped it anyway.)

She wasn’t there.

His phone was gone.

Once upon a time, in a land that was losing, a man sat at the edge of a river.

It’s Adam. Adam is the man. He sat by the river, and he couldn’t see the bridge. The bridge was gone. The road was gone.

The rain was still feeding the river, and the river was eating everything, and Adam was watching it go—that’s when he finally saw her. She was still far away, but he saw her.

“Hello!” he shouted, falling onto his stomach in the mud and reaching into the water.

“Adam!” he heard her shout.

She was coming closer to him. Swimming toward him.

They caught each other’s arms and held fast.

“You’re alive!” she cried. “I’ve been looking for you, hoping.”

“I was looking for you!” he said. “You left the bridge.”

“I didn’t leave. I just came unstuck. And then I was caught up, like everything else, in the river.”

“We’ve found each other now,” he said, grasping at her arms, trying to haul her up onto the bank.

“No,” she said, pulling back. “Adam, what are you doing!”

Her arms slipped away from him. They caught each other by the wrists.

“I can save you!” he said.

She laughed at him. Her lips were red. Her teeth were pointed. Her skin was the color of a green tea Frappuccino.

“It’s still a no,” she said, squeezing his hands tight.

She was stronger than he was. Bigger than he was. She was trying to hold on to him without pulling him in.

“Are you here to save me?” he asked.

“Oh . . . ,” she said sadly. “No.” She pulled herself carefully toward him. “But I’m glad you’re alive. You’ve always been lucky.”

“The road is gone—is this what you wanted?”

“No.”

She was a dark shadow in the water. But he wasn’t a fool—he knew she had a tail.

“It will be easier for you now,” he said. He was crying again. “I’m glad.”

She shook her head. “This isn’t easy. This is just another kind of hard. That’s all that’s left now, for any of us.”

Adam still didn’t understand. She shook her head, like she didn’t expect him to.

Then she pulled herself close, so carefully, and raised herself out of the water.

“My prince,” she said, and kissed him.

And then she let go.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © 2013 Augusten Burroughs

Rainbow Rowell is the award-winning number one New York Times bestselling author of Eleanor & Park, Fangirl, and the Simon Snow series. Her first graphic novel, Pumpkinheads, with artist Faith Erin Hicks, was released in 2019. She lives in Omaha, Nebraska.

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