The next morning, the sunlight poured through the curtains, bright and warm, promising another hot day in Georgia. I could already hear Mama bustling around the kitchen, humming to herself as the sound of clinking jars and the shuffle of paper bags filled the house.

“We’re headin’ to town today, Emily!” she called. “So get yourself dressed and ready to go!”

“Okay, Mama!” I shouted back, leaping out of bed.

Going to town was always an adventure. Folkston might’ve been small, but there was something about its streets that made it feel bigger. The old brick buildings, the chatter of neighbors, and the faint smell of barbecue drifting from Jalen's Bar-B-Q & Grille always made the trip worth it.

By the time I was dressed and ready, Papa was already outside, loading up the truck with the empty feed sacks and crates we’d bring back full of groceries and supplies. He adjusted his hat and called out, “You comin’, kiddo, or are we leavin’ you behind?”

“I’m comin’!” I yelled, racing down the steps and hopping into the cab of the truck.

Mama climbed in beside me, smoothing her dress and tucking a shopping list into her purse. “Timothy, don’t you dare forget to get gas this time,” she said, giving Papa a pointed look.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied with a grin, tipping his hat to her as he started the engine.

The truck rumbled to life, and soon we were bouncing down the dirt road toward town, the morning sun glinting off the windshield. I rolled down my window, letting the warm breeze whip through my hair as the familiar sights of the countryside rolled by—fields of wildflowers, clusters of pine trees, and the occasional mailbox standing crooked by the side of the road.

When we reached Folkston, the streets were already busy with folks going about their day. Mr. Tate was sweeping the sidewalk in front of the hardware store, Mrs. Peterson was arranging peaches at her fruit stand, and kids my age were riding their bikes up and down the street.

The store parking lot at Harvey’s Supermarket was already filling up by the time we arrived, the big green sign gleaming in the morning sun. It was the only real supermarket in town, aside from the Dollar General and Dollar Tree.

Papa parked the truck in a shady spot on the side of the building and hopped out, grabbing one of the empty buggies from the back.

“All right, girls,” he said, tipping his hat back. “Let’s make this quick. I don’t wanna spend all day shoppin’.”

Mama rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, pulling her shopping list from her purse as we headed to the door. “Emily, you stick close to me,” she said, taking my hand.

The store was cool and smelled faintly of coffee and fresh bread. I loved walking through the aisles, looking at all the colorful cans and jars stacked neatly on the shelves. I walked beside Mama as she steered the buggy down the aisles, picking out bags of flour, sugar, and cornmeal. The shelves were lined with all kinds of goodies, and my eyes kept wandering to the brightly colored candy near the checkout counter.

“Emily, come back here,” Mama said, her voice firm but kind. “We’ve got plenty of sweets at home.”

“But Mama,” I started, pointing to a big jar of peppermint sticks.

“No ‘buts,’” she said with a smile. “Now go grab a sack of potatoes for me, will you?”

I ran off to the produce section, where the potatoes were piled high in wooden bins. As I grabbed a sack and struggled to hoist it into the buggy, I heard Papa talking to someone near the butcher counter.

“Timothy, I hear you bagged a big ol’ gator yesterday,” said Mr. Walker, the butcher, leaning on the counter with a grin.

“Sure did,” Papa replied, puffing out his chest a little. “Turned it into supper last night. Might be the best gator tail I’ve ever had.”

“Good eatin’,” Mr. Walker said with a chuckle. “Next time, bring me the hide. I’ll tan it up for ya.”

As the grown-ups talked, I couldn’t help but smile. Folkston might’ve been small, but it was full of big personalities, and a trip to town was never boring.

As we made our way through the aisles, Mama suddenly stopped, her face lighting up as she waved to someone near the baking section.

“Well, if it isn’t Clara Mae!” she said, steering the buggy toward a woman in a floral dress who was inspecting bags of sugar.

Clara turned with a smile. “Beverly! I thought that was you. How are you, honey?”

“Oh, you know, keeping busy,” Mama said, resting her hand on the buggy. “Timothy and Emily have been keepin’ me on my toes as usual.”

They both laughed, and I knew this was going to take a while. Whenever Mama and Clara got to talking, it was like time stood still.

While they chatted about everything from church socials to Clara’s new peach cobbler recipe, I wandered a little further down the aisle, my eyes landing on the endcap display. There, stacked in shiny cans, was a pyramid of peaches in syrup. It was taller than me, and the idea of seeing what would happen if I pulled one from the middle was suddenly irresistible.

I glanced back at Mama, who was still deep in conversation. She wasn’t paying attention. I reached out, gripping the can in the center of the stack. Slowly, I slid it out, holding my breath.

For a second, nothing happened. Then, with a soft clink, the pyramid wobbled.

I froze, my heart racing. Maybe it would stay up.

But the wobble turned into a full-on collapse, and before I could even think to stop it, cans were tumbling down, clattering onto the floor in every direction.

The noise echoed through the store, and I felt every set of eyes in Harvey’s turn in my direction.

“Emily!” Mama’s sharp voice cut through the commotion as she hurried toward me, leaving Clara behind. Her face was a mix of shock and anger.

I stood there, my cheeks burning, as she surveyed the mess of rolling cans and toppled peaches.

“What in the world were you thinkin’?” she demanded, her hands on her hips.

“I… I just wanted to see what would happen,” I mumbled, staring at my shoes.

“Well, now you know,” she said firmly, bending down to pick up one of the cans. “And you’re gonna help clean it up.”

Clara joined her, chuckling softly. “Oh, Beverly, she’s just curious. Reminds me of my boys at that age.”

Mama gave Clara a tight smile before turning back to me. “Curious or not, she knows better than to make a mess like this. Grab those cans, Emily.”

I nodded quickly and scrambled to pick up the scattered cans, stacking them back on the display with shaking hands. Clara helped a little, but I could tell Mama was still upset.

By the time the cans were back in place, I was sweaty and embarrassed, and Mama’s stern look hadn’t softened much.

“You stay right by my side for the rest of this trip,” she said as she pushed the buggy forward.

“Yes, Mama,” I muttered, trailing behind her with my head down.

Papa caught up to us near the checkout lane, holding a pack of bacon and a grin. “What’s got y’all lookin’ so serious?” he asked.

“Your daughter decided to test the laws of gravity on the canned goods aisle,” Mama said flatly.

Papa chuckled, ruffling my hair. “That’s my girl. Always experimentin’.”

Mama shot him a look that could’ve stopped a clock. “Timothy, this isn’t funny.”

“All right, all right,” he said, holding up his hands. “I’ll let y’all sort it out.”

As we loaded the groceries into the truck, I kept quiet, knowing I was on thin ice. Still, as we drove home, I couldn’t help but smile a little, thinking about how those cans had tumbled down like a waterfall.

Even if I’d gotten in trouble, it had been kind of fun.

The ride home was quiet, except for the hum of the truck engine and the occasional bump of the dirt road. I sat in the middle seat, staring out the window and letting the warm breeze brush past my face. Mama hadn’t said much after we left Harvey’s, and I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Papa glanced over at me with a small grin. “Don’t look so down, kiddo. You didn’t ruin the whole town, just a stack of peaches.”

Mama sighed, shaking her head. “Timothy, you’re not helping.”

“I’m just sayin’,” he said, nudging my shoulder playfully. “At least it wasn’t eggs. Now that would’ve been a mess.”

That made me smile, even though I tried to hide it.

When we pulled into the driveway, the truck rumbled to a stop, and Papa hopped out to grab the crates of groceries. “Emily, come give me a hand,” he said, waving me over.

I slid out of the truck, eager to make up for my mistake earlier. We carried the groceries into the kitchen, setting the bags on the counter while Mama started putting things away.

“Go on and wash up, Emily,” she said, her voice softer now. “Lunch’ll be ready soon.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, heading to the bathroom to scrub the dirt and sweat from my hands.

By the time I came back, Mama had set out plates of ham sandwiches and a big bowl of potato chips on the table. Papa was already sitting down, his hat pushed back, waiting patiently as Mama brought over the pitcher of sweet tea.

“Come on, now,” Mama said, motioning for me to join them. “Let’s say grace before we dig in.”

We all bowed our heads, and Papa cleared his throat. His voice was low and steady as he prayed.

“Lord, we thank You for this food on our table, for the hands that prepared it, and for the blessings You give us each and every day. We’re grateful for the sunshine, the good folks in this town, and the love of family. Amen.”

“Amen,” Mama and I echoed, lifting our heads.

Papa grabbed his sandwich with a grin. “All right, let’s eat!” He took a swig of sweet tea.

“Now,” Mama said, “let’s talk about what happened at the store.”

I fidgeted with my sandwich, not meeting her eyes.

“I know you didn’t mean to cause trouble,” she continued, “but you’ve got to think before you act, Emily. What if someone had gotten hurt?”

“I’m sorry, Mama,” I said, my voice small. “I just wanted to see what would happen.”

She sighed, her stern expression softening. “I know you’re curious, and that’s a good thing. But there’s a time and a place for it. Next time, try asking first. Deal?”

“Deal,” I said, feeling a little better.

“Good,” she said with a small smile, handing me the pitcher of tea. “Now, pour your Papa some more sweet tea before he drinks the whole thing.”

I laughed, reaching for the pitcher.

As we ate lunch, Papa started telling stories about when he was a boy, getting into trouble of his own. “One time,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “I tried to climb the water tower to see if I could catch a bird. My mama about skinned me alive when she found out.”

I giggled, imagining Papa as a kid, hanging from a water tower with a mischievous grin.

After we finished lunch and cleared the table, Mama handed me a broom.

“Since you’re so full of energy today, you can sweep the porch,” she said with a wink.

“Yes, Mama,” I said, taking the broom and heading outside.

The porch was my favorite part of the house. It wrapped all the way around, with a few rocking chairs and a small table where Mama kept a pot of flowers. As I swept, I kept an eye on the yard, watching the bees buzz around the wildflowers and the squirrels dart up and down the big oak tree near the edge of the woods.

While I worked, Papa came around the side of the house, carrying a bucket and some tools.

“Whatcha doin’, Papa?” I asked, leaning on the broom.

“Gotta fix the fence over by the garden,” he said, setting the bucket down and inspecting one of the wooden posts. “It’s leanin’ somethin’ fierce. You wanna help?”

“Sure!” I said, setting the broom aside and hurrying over.

We spent the next hour hammering nails, tightening wires, and replacing a couple of broken slats. Papa showed me how to hold the nails steady without hitting my fingers, and I felt a little thrill every time I got one right.

“Not bad, kiddo,” he said, stepping back to admire our work. “I reckon this’ll hold up for a good while now.”

“Do you think we’ll keep the rabbits out?” I asked, brushing dirt off my hands.

“Probably not,” he said with a chuckle. “Those little critters always find a way in. But it’s worth a try.”

By the time we finished, the afternoon sun was beating down hard, and we both decided it was time for a break. Papa headed inside to grab a cold drink, and I wandered over to the edge of the woods, where the shade felt cool and inviting.

I didn’t go in—Mama always said I needed permission first—but I crouched near the tall grass, looking for interesting rocks or bugs.

“Emily!” Mama’s voice called from the house. “Come on in, sweetie. It’s too hot to be out there.”

I stood up, brushing off my knees, and headed back toward the porch.

The rest of the day passed with little Moments that made it feel special in its own quiet way. After we’d tidied up from lunch, Mama handed me a basket full of laundry.

“Come on, Emily,” she said, grabbing another basket. “Let’s get these folded before your Papa gets grease all over his good shirt again.”

We sat on the porch, the warm breeze rustling the clothes as we worked. I liked the way the sun made the sheets smell clean and fresh, like sunlight and soap. Mama hummed a tune as she folded a pillowcase, her fingers moving quick and neat.

“Mama?” I said, trying to match her speed as I folded one of Papa’s shirts.

“Hmm?” she replied, glancing at me.

“Do you think I’ll ever be as good at folding as you?”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “It’s not about bein’ perfect, sugar. It’s about takin’ care of what you’ve got.”

I thought about that for a Moment as I finished my shirt. “I guess I can try harder to keep my room clean, then.”

“That’d be a fine start,” she said with a smile, tucking a folded sheet into the basket.

When the laundry was done, I wandered over to the driveway, where Papa was leaning under the hood of the truck. He had a wrench in one hand and a greasy rag in the other, muttering something about the carburetor.

“Whatcha workin’ on, Papa?” I asked, leaning against the truck.

“Just tryin’ to keep this ol’ girl runnin’,” he said, wiping his hands. “She’s got a few more miles left in her, I reckon.”

“Can I help?”

“Sure thing,” he said, handing me the rag. “Start by cleanin’ off these tools.”

I sat on the porch steps, wiping grease off the wrenches and screwdrivers while Papa tinkered away. He’d occasionally holler for me to pass him something, and I’d hand it over like a professional mechanic.

By the time he was done, the sun was dipping low in the sky, and I had a smear of grease across my cheek.

“Good job, kiddo,” Papa said, patting me on the back. “I might just have to hire you full-time.”

“I’ll take payment in candy,” I joked, and he laughed.

Later, as the sky turned shades of pink and orange, I wandered over to the bushes near the garden. The blackberry brambles were thick and tangled, but the berries were plump and juicy, just begging to be picked.

I reached in carefully, avoiding the thorns as I plucked a handful of the darkest, ripest berries. The sweet juice stained my fingers as I popped one into my mouth.

“Emily!” Mama’s voice called from the porch. “Don’t eat too many of those. You’ll spoil your supper!”

“I’m just testing ‘em!” I called back, grinning.

When I finally headed inside, my hands were sticky, and my face was smudged with blackberry juice. Mama shook her head with a smile, handing me a damp cloth.

“Go wash up,” she said. “You look like you’ve been wrestlin’ with a berry bush.”

As I washed my hands, I thought about the day—the little Moments, the laughter, the time spent with Mama and Papa. The earlier mishap at the store already felt like a distant memory, just one more story to laugh about at the dinner table.

The morning sun hadn't even cleared the treetops when Mama came into my room, her voice soft but firm.

"Rise and shine, Emily," she said, pulling the curtains open. "It's Sunday, and you know what that means."

I groaned, burying my face in the pillow. I liked church, mostly, but waking up early wasn't my favorite part of it.

"Come on, now," she said, tugging at the covers. "We've got to get there on time, or your Papa'll be complainin' about sittin' in the back row again."

That got me moving. Papa always liked to sit up front, claiming Pastor Wilson's words hit better the closer you were.

By the time I was dressed in my Sunday best—a simple blue dress with a bow in the back—and had my hair brushed and tied into neat pigtails, the smell of biscuits and bacon was wafting through the house.

"Better eat quick," Papa said, sitting at the table in his crisp button-down shirt and polished boots. "Can't have the Lord waitin' on us."

Mama set a plate in front of me, then sat down with her own. "Before we dig in, let's say grace."

We bowed our heads, and Papa led the prayer. "Lord, we thank You for another beautiful day and the chance to come together as a family. Bless this food, bless this day, and guide us in Your light. Amen."

"Amen," Mama and I echoed, and soon the sound of forks scraping plates filled the room.

The ride to church was peaceful, the truck rumbling softly as we drove along the dirt road. I watched the countryside roll by, the morning light glinting off the dew-covered grass.

When we pulled up to the small white church, its steeple reaching toward the sky, the gravel parking lot was already filling with cars and trucks. Folks in their Sunday best milled about, chatting and laughing as they greeted one another.

"Morning, Timothy!" called Mr. Daniels, tipping his hat to Papa as we climbed out of the truck.

"Morning, Daniels," Papa replied with a wave.

Mama smoothed the wrinkles from her dress and took my hand as we walked toward the church doors. The scent of fresh-cut grass and blooming flowers filled the air, and I could hear the faint sound of the piano playing inside.

Inside, the sanctuary was bright and welcoming, with rows of polished wooden pews and sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows. I loved the windows—they were colorful and told stories I didn't fully understand, but they felt important.

We found our seats near the front, just like Papa liked, and waited for the service to begin.

As the piano music grew louder, the congregation quieted. Pastor Wilson, a tall man with a kind face and a booming voice, stepped up to the pulpit.

"Good mornin', everyone," he said, his voice filling the room. "It's a blessing to see y'all here today. Let's start with a hymn—'Just a closer walk with Thee.'"

The congregation stood, and the sound of voices rising together filled the church. Mama's voice was soft but steady, and Papa's was low and deep. I sang along, even though I wasn't sure I hit all the right notes.

I am weak but Thou art strong;
Jesus, keep me from all wrong;
I'll be satisfied as long
As I walk, let me walk close to Thee.

Just a closer walk with Thee,
Grant it, Jesus, is my plea,
Daily walking close to Thee,
Let it be, dear Lord, let it be.

Thro' this world of toil and snares,
If I falter, Lord, who cares?
Who with me my burden shares?
None but Thee, dear Lord, none but Thee.

Just a closer walk with Thee,
Grant it, Jesus, is my plea,
Daily walking close to Thee,
Let it be, dear Lord, let it be.

When my feeble life is o'er,
Time for me will be no more;
Guide me gently, safely o'er
To Thy kingdom shore, to Thy shore.

Just a closer walk with Thee,
Grant it, Jesus, is my plea,
Daily walking close to Thee,
Let it be, dear Lord, let it be.

After the hymn, Pastor Wilson led a prayer, thanking God for the day, the congregation, and the blessings they'd received. Then came the sermon.

Pastor Wilson talked about kindness and forgiveness, about loving your neighbor and doing what's right even when it's hard. His words were simple but powerful, and even though I didn't understand everything, I could tell they meant something to everyone around me.

When the service ended, the congregation gathered outside, chatting and catching up.

"Emily!" called Mrs. Anderson, one of Mama's friends, as she came over with a plate of cookies. "I made these for the bake sale, but I thought you might like one."

"Thank you, ma'am," I said, taking a cookie and biting into the soft, sweet dough.

As Mama and Papa talked with neighbors, I wandered around the yard, playing tag with some of the other kids. The churchyard felt alive with laughter and chatter.

It always took forever to leave church, especially because Mama and Papa loved to talk with just about everyone they ran into.

Papa stood near the steps, leaning on the railing with his hat tipped back, chatting with a group of men about the weather and the best way to fix a sagging barn door.

"I tell ya, Timothy," Mr. Daniels was saying, "you're gonna need more than a couple of nails to keep that thing upright."

"Well, I reckon I'll find out soon enough," Papa replied with a chuckle.

Meanwhile, Mama was near the oak tree at the edge of the yard, laughing with Mrs. Anderson and another woman about some news in town.

"You mean to tell me she brought three pies to the bake sale and didn't even bake them herself?" Mama asked, raising an eyebrow.

"She sure did," Mrs. Anderson said, shaking her head. "Store-bought, every one of 'em. But bless her heart, she tried."

I sat on the church steps, watching the other kids play tag in the grass. A couple of them tried to wave me over, but I didn't feel like running around in my Sunday dress. Instead, I picked at the dandelions growing by the steps, blowing their fluffy seeds into the air and watching them drift away.

Every now and then, I'd glance over at Mama or Papa, hoping they'd finally say, "Time to go," but they never did.

"Emily, why don't you go play with the others?" Mama called over after a while.

"I'm fine," I said, trying not to sound too impatient.

She gave me a knowing smile but didn't push me. I knew she and Papa were enjoying themselves, catching up with their friends and neighbors.

Eventually, Papa clapped Mr. Daniels on the back and tipped his hat to the group. "All right, we'd best be headin' home before the whole day's gone."

Mama took a little longer, wrapping up her conversation with a warm smile and a promise to drop by for tea sometime soon.

By the time we climbed back into the truck, the sun was high, and the heat was starting to settle in. I let out a little sigh of relief as we rolled down the road, the wind from the open windows cooling my face.

As the truck rumbled down the driveway and came to a stop in front of the house, I noticed something strange. The yard seemed alive with movement—little flashes of green and brown hopping through the grass and onto the porch steps.

"Frogs!" I squealed, bouncing in my seat.

Sure enough, there were frogs everywhere—big ones, little ones, fat ones, and skinny ones. Some were perched on the porch railing, while others were hopping around the garden, blending in with the leaves.

"Well, would you look at that," Papa said, climbing out of the truck with a grin. "Emily, looks like your dinner just delivered itself."

I was out of the truck before he could say Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah, running toward the yard. "I can catch them for dinner?" I asked, excitement bubbling in my chest.

Papa nodded, his grin widening. "Sure can. Frog legs fry up nice and tender. Let's see how many you can catch."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Mama groaned, stepping out of the truck and putting her hands on her hips. "Timothy, do you have to encourage this nonsense?"

"Come on, Bev," Papa said, chuckling. "It's good eatin'. Don't knock it till you try it."

"I'll knock it all I want," she said, wrinkling her nose as a frog hopped onto the porch step near her shoe. "This is disgusting. I'll be inside making a proper meal. You two can do... whatever this is."

I laughed as Mama headed toward the house, muttering under her breath about "swamp critters" and "ridiculous ideas."

"Let's get to work," Papa said, grabbing an old bucket from the shed and handing it to me.

I spent the next hour running around the yard, chasing frogs and carefully scooping them into the bucket. They were slippery little things, hopping out of my hands a few times before I got the hang of it, but I managed to catch enough to make Papa proud.

"Well, I'll be," he said, inspecting the bucket full of frogs. "You've got a talent for this, kiddo. We're gonna have ourselves a fine supper tonight."

I grinned, wiping the sweat from my forehead. "Can we fry them like the gator tail?"

"You bet," he said, carrying the bucket toward the shed. "But first, we gotta clean 'em. Go wash up and tell your mama we'll be ready for supper soon."

I ran inside, where Mama was chopping vegetables at the counter. She raised an eyebrow when she saw me.

"Don't even think about putting those frogs in my kitchen," she warned.

"I won't," I said, washing my hands at the sink. "Papa's taking care of it. But he said they'll be real good."

Mama shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. "You two are somethin' else, you know that?"

As I washed my hands at the sink, Mama glanced over and let out a dramatic sigh.

"Emily! Look at your dress!" she said, pointing to the smudges of dirt and a small green streak from where I'd wiped my hands earlier.

I looked down and winced. I'd been so excited about the frogs that I'd completely forgotten to change out of my Sunday dress after church.

"Oh no," I said, biting my lip. "I forgot!"

Mama put down the knife she was using to chop vegetables and crossed her arms. "That's why I tell you to change first thing when we get home. Now look at it—it's a mess!"

"I'm sorry, Mama," I said, twisting the fabric of my dress in my hands.

"Go change into your play clothes before you get into any more trouble."

"Yes, Mama," I said quickly, hurrying out of the kitchen and up to my room.

I swapped the dress for a pair of overalls and a T-shirt, then brought the dirty dress back downstairs. Mama was waiting, her arms still crossed but her expression softer.

I handed the dress to Mama, who clicked her tongue as she examined the stains.

"This is gonna take some elbow grease," she said, grabbing a basin from under the sink. She filled it with warm water, added a bit of lye soap, and set it on the counter.

"Go fetch the scrub board from the porch," she said, rolling up her sleeves.

"Yes, Mama," I replied, hurrying outside to grab the worn wooden board that leaned against the porch wall. It was smooth in some spots and rough in others from years of use. I brought it back to the kitchen and set it beside the basin.

Mama dipped the dress into the soapy water, then began scrubbing it against the board with quick, practiced strokes. The suds turned gray almost immediately as the dirt and grass stains started lifting from the fabric.

"This is why I tell you to change after church," she said, glancing at me with a raised eyebrow.

"I know," I said, watching the water swirl with tiny bubbles. "I just forgot."

She sighed but didn't say anything more, focusing on the dress. Once she was satisfied, she wrung it out and handed it to me.

"Go hang this on the line," she said.

I took the damp dress out to the backyard, where the clothesline stretched between two tall posts. The breeze was warm, and the sun was still bright in the sky, enough to dry things quickly. I used the clothespins to clip the dress securely to the line, watching it sway gently in the wind.

When I went back inside, Mama was wiping her hands on a towel. "That'll teach you to remember next time," she said with a small smile. "Now, go see what your Papa's up to. I'm sure he's gotten into some kind of mess with those frogs by now."

I skipped across the yard, the warm grass tickling my bare feet as I headed toward the shed. I could hear Papa whistling a tune, the sound mingling with the occasional croak of frogs from the bucket nearby.

When I peeked around the corner, there he was, sitting on an old stool with his sleeves rolled up, a knife in one hand and a frog in the other.

"Hey there, kiddo," he said without looking up, his voice easy and cheerful. "You come to help, or just to supervise?"

"Help," I said, stepping closer and wrinkling my nose at the smell.

"Well, you've got good timing," he said, setting the cleaned frog legs into a bowl. "Grab that other bucket and rinse these off for me."

I picked up the smaller bucket he pointed to and walked over to the spigot near the side of the shed. The cool water gushed out, splashing my hands as I rinsed the frog legs one by one.

"What's Mama gonna say when she sees this?" I asked, glancing over my shoulder at Papa.

He laughed, wiping his knife on a rag. "She's already said it. Plenty of times. But she'll eat 'em. She always does."

I wasn't so sure about that, but I didn't argue. Once the frog legs were cleaned and the pile in the bowl was growing, I couldn't help but feel a little proud.

"Do you think I'll get good at this one day?" I asked, bringing the rinsed bucket back to him.

"Darlin', you're already good at it," he said, giving me a wink.

I skipped back to the house, ready to tell Mama that lunch was long overdue. When I stepped into the kitchen, she was already slicing a loaf of bread and setting out jars of preserves.

"Lunch first, then we'll deal with your frogs," she said firmly, not even looking up.

"Yes, ma'am," I replied, setting the bucket down near the door and washing my hands at the sink.

"Grab some plates and set the table," she added. "Your Papa'll be in here any second, saying he's starving."

I laughed because she was right. As if on cue, Papa's voice called from outside, "Y'all better not have started without me!"

By the time he walked in, wiping his hands on a rag, the table was set with thick slices of bread, butter, and jars of strawberry and peach preserves. Mama had also sliced up some leftover ham, arranging it neatly on a plate.

"Let's say grace," she said, sitting down and folding her hands.

We all bowed our heads as Papa spoke. "Lord, we thank You for this food and for the hard work that went into it. Thank You for another beautiful day and for keeping us safe. Amen."

"Amen," Mama and I echoed.

Lunch was simple but satisfying, and the kitchen was filled with the sound of clinking forks and cheerful conversation. Papa told us about the time he tried to fry frogs as a kid and ended up burning the skillet. Mama shook her head, muttering something about "boys and their wild ideas," but she was smiling the whole time.

After we cleaned up, the afternoon stretched out quiet and lazy. The sun was high, and the air felt heavy with warmth. Papa pulled his whittling knife from his pocket and settled into his rocking chair on the porch.

"What are you making, Papa?" I asked, sitting cross-legged on the porch floor.

He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. "Guess you'll just have to wait and see."

The soft scrape of the knife against the wood was steady and soothing. I watched as little curls of wood fell to the porch, and slowly, the shape of a small animal—maybe a dog, maybe a rabbit—began to emerge. As I sat there, I felt a strange thought bubble up, one I didn't often say out loud.

"You know, Papa," I began, watching his hands work carefully, "sometimes I feel like I'm not just me. Like, some days I feel like Emily—the way everyone sees me—but other days, I feel like maybe I'm more like you. Like I could be a boy if I wanted to."

Papa paused for a Moment, his knife still against the wood. He glanced at me, his eyes soft and curious. "That so?"

I nodded, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. "Yeah. I mean, I like climbin' trees and catchin' frogs, and all the boys do that. But then there are days I like wearin' dresses and sittin' quiet with Mama. It's like I'm both, but not always at the same time."

Papa smiled, his hands starting to carve again. "Well, kiddo, you just keep bein' you. Doesn't matter what anyone thinks, so long as you're happy."

I felt my chest loosen a little, like a weight I didn't know I was carrying had lifted. "Thanks, Papa." Mama came out with a glass of iced tea and sat on the swing, her book resting in her lap.

"This is the best part of the day," she said, letting the swing rock gently.

I nodded. Even though the frogs were still hopping around the yard, I decided they could wait. There'd be plenty of time for adventure later, but for now, the soft rhythm of the porch and the warmth of the sun felt just right.

As Papa continued whittling and Mama sipped her iced tea, an idea popped into my head. I stood up and grabbed the jar of pennies from the side table by the rocking chair.

"Let's play the penny game!" I said, holding up the jar with a grin.

"The penny game?" Papa asked, looking up from his carving.

"Yeah! We see who can toss their pennies closest to the edge of the porch without them falling off!"

Mama shook her head but smiled. "And what's the prize for winning this high-stakes game?"

"The winner gets to pick dessert tonight!" I declared, spilling a few pennies into my hand.

Papa chuckled, setting his knife and carving aside. "All right, I'm in. But you better watch out, kiddo. I've got a steady hand."

We each grabbed a handful of pennies, taking turns tossing them toward the edge of the porch. Some stopped just shy of the edge, while others tumbled into the dirt below. Mama's tosses were careful and precise, Papa's were strong but wild, and mine were somewhere in between, sometimes landing too far, sometimes not far enough.

"Looks like I win!" Mama announced after her penny stopped just a hair from the edge.

"No fair!" Papa said, pretending to pout. "She's got a sharpshooter's eye."

"It's called precision, Timothy," she said with a laugh, brushing her hands. "Now, I'm thinkin' peach cobbler for dessert."

"Peach cobbler? Fine choice," Papa said, leaning back in his chair. "But next time, I'm takin' the win."

I laughed, scooping up the pennies that had fallen and putting them back in the jar. It wasn't a big game, but it felt like one of those Moments that mattered, one I'd carry with me for a long time.

By the time dinner rolled around, the air outside had cooled, and the frogs—many of which I'd caught earlier—were ready to be fried. Mama sighed as she set the table, muttering about swamp creatures and her kitchen being taken over by "wild ideas." Papa, on the other hand, was in his element, standing over the cast iron skillet with his sleeves rolled up, a grin on his face.

"Frog legs fry up quick," he said, flipping a batch with practiced ease. The smell of crispy batter filled the house, mingling with the scent of cornbread Mama had made to go along with it.

We gathered around the table, the plates piled high with golden-brown frog legs, cornbread, and a fresh garden salad Mama had insisted on adding. As usual, we bowed our heads before digging in.

Papa led the prayer. "Lord, thank You for this meal, for the hands that prepared it, and for the blessings of this day. Amen."

"Amen," Mama and I echoed.

I picked up a piece of frog leg, the crispy batter warm against my fingers. I took a bite, and the flavor surprised me. It was light and tender, with a hint of the seasoning Papa had added—a mix of salt, pepper, and a little cayenne for heat.

"Tastes like chicken," I said, grinning.

Papa laughed, reaching for another piece. "That's what they all say. But it's better than chicken, isn't it?"

I nodded, chewing happily. "It's really good."

Mama took a small bite, her expression skeptical at first, but then she nodded. "Not bad. Still not my favorite, but not bad."

Papa smirked. "Told ya."

We ate until we were full, the conversation bouncing between frogs, funny stories from the day, and plans for tomorrow. By the time we were done, the plates were nearly empty, and the only sounds were the crickets starting their nightly song outside.

It was Monday morning and I was sitting on the porch, playing with a small stick I'd carved into a pretend sword.

"Emily," Mama called from the kitchen, her voice carrying through the house. "Come eat your breakfast before it gets cold!"

"Coming!" I yelled back, hopping out of bed and quickly pulling on my overalls. The smell of bacon and biscuits tugged me faster than my feet could carry me.

At the table, Papa was already halfway through his plate, reading the paper with one hand and holding a fork in the other. Mama stood by the stove, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

"Mornin', kiddo," Papa said, glancing up as I plopped into my chair.

"Morning," I replied, grabbing a biscuit and slathering it with butter. "What's we doing today today?"

"It's Monday, so we'll keep it easy," Mama said, setting her coffee down and joining us at the table. "But I want you to help me with the garden later. We've got weeds growing faster than I can pull 'em."

I nodded, my mouth too full of biscuit to answer properly. Working in the garden wasn't my favorite thing, but I didn't mind as much when it meant spending time with Mama.

Papa folded his paper and set it aside. "Before you get to that, I need to check the fence line. Emily, you wanna come with me? It's been a while since we've walked it."

I perked up immediately. Walking the fence line with Papa meant more than just checking for loose posts and gaps; it meant exploring the edges of our land, seeing what critters had come through overnight, and hearing Papa's stories about when he was a boy.

"Can I, Mama?" I asked, looking at her with wide eyes.

She smiled and waved me off. "Go on, then. But don't dawdle too long. The weeds will still be waitin' for you."

I grinned, stuffing the last bite of biscuit into my mouth before hopping up to grab my boots. Papa was already by the door, his hat in hand, waiting for me.

"Let's get to it," he said, opening the door and stepping out into the warm morning air.

We walked along the fence line, the grass soft underfoot and the sun climbing higher in the sky. Papa pointed out a few spots where the fence needed patching, marking them with a piece of string he carried in his pocket. Along the way, we found signs of deer, raccoons, and even a fox that had passed through during the night.

"You see this here?" Papa said, crouching down to point at a cluster of paw prints near the fence. "That's a fox, I'd bet. Sneaky little things, they are. Probably sniffin' around for chickens."

I crouched beside him, tracing the paw prints with my finger. "Think we'll see one?"

"Maybe," he said, standing back up. "But they're quick. You gotta be lucky to catch a glimpse of 'em."

We kept walking, and Papa told me stories about how he used to trap foxes when he was a boy. I loved hearing about the tricks he used and the adventures he had growing up. It made me feel like I was part of something bigger, like our land and our family were connected in ways I couldn't always see.

As we walked further, I glanced at Papa, watching the way he moved so sure and steady. I kicked at the dirt a little, a thought stirring in the back of my mind.

"Papa," I said, breaking the quiet. "Remember what I told you before? About feelin' like I'm a little of both?"

He slowed his steps and looked over at me, a knowing smile spreading across his face. "Course I do. Why? You thinkin' about it again?"

"Yeah," I admitted, tracing a pattern in the dust with my boot. "It just... makes me wonder sometimes if I'm supposed to pick one or the other."

Papa stopped walking and rested his hand on my shoulder. "Emily, you don't have to pick nothin'. Like I told you before, this world's big enough for you to climb trees and bake pies. To be you, however that looks. Don't let anyone tell you different."

I smiled, feeling the weight lift just a little. "Thanks, Papa."

He squeezed my shoulder gently. "Anytime, kiddo. Now, let's see if we can't find more of those fox prints before the sun gets too high."

We kept walking along the fence line, the soft rustle of the breeze in the grass and the occasional chirp of birds filling the quiet. I noticed how Papa scanned the land as we walked, his eyes always looking for the smallest details, like a fence post leaning just a little too far or a patch of ground where animals had dug under the wire.

"Do you think a fox could really get into the chicken coop?" I asked.

"If it's hungry enough, it'll try," Papa said, pausing to check a loose post. "That's why we keep the coop locked up tight at night. But you'd be surprised what animals can do when they're determined."

"Have you ever seen one try?" I crouched down to look at a patch of dirt near the fence, wondering if I could spot another paw print.

"Oh, sure," Papa said, straightening up. "One time, back when I was about your age, we had a fox that was so bold it'd come up to the coop even during the day. Smart little thing—it figured out how to nudge the latch loose with its nose."

"What happened?" I asked, wide-eyed.

Papa grinned. "Well, I reckon it got away with a hen or two before my Papa caught it. He set a trap near the coop, and we stayed up late one night just to see if it'd come back. Sure enough, there it was, sneakin' around like it owned the place."

"Did you catch it?" I stood up, brushing the dirt off my hands.

"Sure did," Papa said with a chuckle. "But it put up a fight. Took us all night to calm the chickens down afterward."

I laughed, imagining the scene. "I wish I could've seen that."

Papa shook his head, still smiling. "You've got plenty of your own adventures ahead, kiddo. Don't you worry."

By the time we looped back toward the house, the sun was high, and the morning had turned hot and sticky. I could see Mama in the garden, her sun hat tilted low as she pulled at a stubborn weed.

"Go on and grab some water," Papa said, patting my shoulder. "Then you can help your mama."

I nodded and headed straight for the garden hose instead of going inside. The hose was coiled up near the side of the house, and I gave it a good tug to unwind it. The water shot out cold and fast when I turned the spigot, splashing onto the dirt and my bare feet. I leaned down and cupped my hands, letting the icy water pool before slurping it up like I always did.

The coolness was just what I needed after walking in the heat, and for a Moment, I sprayed the hose into the air, letting the mist catch the sunlight and fall over me in tiny, glittering drops. I laughed, feeling refreshed and just a little mischievous.

"Emily!" Mama called from the garden, her hands on her hips. "Don't soak yourself before you come help me!"

"Just coolin' off, Mama!" I yelled back, grinning as I splashed some water on my arms before shutting the hose off.

With my thirst quenched and the heat chased away, I coiled the hose back neatly and headed toward the garden, ready for whatever chores Mama had planned.

Just then a familiar voice called out.

"Help! Anybody home?"

Papa walked over to see what was going on.

"Timothy, I've got myself in a mess," he said, wiping his brow. "The front wheel gave out, and to make matters worse, my mule spooked and ran off. Don't know where she's gone."

Papa frowned, crouching down to inspect the broken wagon. "Well, the wheel's an easy enough fix, but that mule of yours might take some tracking. Where'd you last see her?"

"She bolted near the creek," Mr. Harlan said, pointing toward the woods. "I tied her up while I loaded the wagon, but she must've gotten loose."

Papa straightened up, brushing his hands on his pants. "All right, here's what we'll do. Emily and I will help you track down your mule. Once we've got her, we'll come back and fix the wagon."

Mr. Harlan let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Timothy. I don't know what I'd do without y'all."

Papa tipped his hat. "That's what neighbors are for. Let's grab some rope and head out."

I ran to grab the rope from the shed while Papa and Mr. Harlan talked about where the mule might have gone. Part of me was excited to go tracking; it felt like an adventure straight out of a storybook.

As we headed into the woods, I stayed close to Papa, keeping my eyes peeled for any sign of the mule. The trees cast long shadows on the ground, and the air was cooler here, filled with the earthy smell of leaves and moss.

"See anything?" Papa asked, glancing at me.

I shook my head. "Not yet, but I'm looking."

After a while, we found fresh hoofprints near the creek. Papa crouched down to inspect them, a small smile on his face. "She's close. These prints are fresh. Keep your ears open."

Sure enough, after a few more minutes of walking, we heard a faint rustling and the soft snort of a mule. There she was, standing by the water and munching on some grass, her reins tangled in a low-hanging branch.

"There she is!" I whispered, pointing.

Mr. Harlan let out a relieved laugh. "That's my girl. Knew she wouldn't go far."

Carefully, Papa approached the mule, talking to her in a low, calm voice. "Easy now, girl. Let's get you back where you belong."

Once he untangled the reins, Mr. Harlan grabbed hold and gave her a gentle pat. "Thank you, Timothy. Emily, you've got sharp eyes. Couldn't have done it without you."

I beamed, feeling proud as we led the mule back to the wagon. Fixing the wheel took a little longer, with Papa showing me how to brace the axle and hammer the pieces back into place, but by the time we were done, the wagon looked as good as new.

"All right, Harlan," Papa said, dusting off his hands. "You're good to go. Just keep a closer eye on that mule next time."

"You have my word," Mr. Harlan said, tipping his hat. "I owe y'all big time. Come by the house soon, and I'll make it up to you with some fresh biscuits and honey."

Papa laughed. "We'll hold you to that. Safe travels."

As Mr. Harlan drove off, I looked up at Papa. "That was fun. Can we do it again?"

He chuckled, ruffling my hair. "Let's hope we don't have to. But you did good today, Emily. Real good."

I smiled, feeling like I'd been part of something important. It wasn't every day you got to help a neighbor and have an adventure all in one.

As Mr. Harlan's wagon disappeared down the road, I stretched my arms up high and let out a big sigh. The afternoon sun was starting to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the yard.

"Well, that was somethin'," I said, dusting my hands off on my overalls.

Papa leaned back against the fence, wiping his brow with a bandana. "You're tellin' me. That mule was more stubborn than a pig in a potato patch."

I giggled at the thought, but then an idea struck me. I crouched down, scooped up a handful of dirt, and packed it tight into a clump. With a grin, I threw it toward Papa, the soft dirt breaking apart as it landed harmlessly on his boot.

He looked at me, pretending to be shocked. "Oh, you've done it now, kiddo."

Before I could run, he reached down and grabbed a small clump of dirt himself, flinging it toward me. It landed just beside me, and I burst out laughing.

"You missed!" I teased, grabbing another handful and tossing it toward him.

Papa narrowed his eyes playfully. "Don't get too cocky, Emily."

We went back and forth for a few minutes, laughing so hard I nearly fell over. It wasn't long before Mama came out onto the porch, her hands on her hips and an exasperated look on her face.

"What in the world are you two doin'?" she asked, but her tone couldn't quite hide her amusement.

"Just blowin' off some steam," Papa said with a grin, brushing dirt off his shirt.

"Well, don't blow so much steam that I have to clean it up," she said, shaking her head. "Emily, go wash up. Dinner's not far off."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, still laughing as I headed toward the garden hose. My face was flushed, my hands were dirty, but my heart felt full.

By the time dinner rolled around, the sky was painted in hues of orange and pink, the kind of evening that made everything feel a little more peaceful. Mama had outdone herself, as usual, with a spread that smelled like home—fried chicken, cornbread, green beans, and a peach cobbler cooling on the windowsill.

When we sat down, the smell of the food made my stomach rumble so loud that Papa chuckled. "Sounds like someone's been workin' hard today."

Mama raised an eyebrow. "Workin' hard or playin' hard? Judging by the dirt clods I saw earlier, I'd say the latter."

"A little of both," I admitted with a grin.

"All right, let's say grace," Papa said, bowing his head. "Lord, we thank You for this food, for the hands that prepared it, and for the good work You've given us to do. Bless this family and this evening. Amen."

"Amen," Mama and I echoed.

The first bite of fried chicken was heaven. The crispy skin crackled as I bit into it, the juicy meat practically melting in my mouth. I loaded my plate with cornbread and green beans, savoring each bite like it was the best thing I'd ever eaten.

"This is so good, Mama," I said between bites.

She smiled, her cheeks a little pink. "Well, thank you, Emily. But don't forget to leave room for cobbler."

Papa nodded, his plate already looking empty. "Best meal I've had all week. Though that might be because I earned it today," he said, giving me a wink.

"You mean we earned it," I corrected, grinning.

"Fair enough," Papa said, raising his glass of sweet tea. "To teamwork."

"To teamwork," I echoed, clinking my glass against his.

Dinner passed with easy conversation and laughter, the kind that made me feel warm all over. By the time the peach cobbler made its way to the table, the sun had dipped below the horizon, and the first crickets of the evening were starting their song.

"Save me a piece for tomorrow," Papa said, leaning back in his chair with a contented sigh.

"If there's any left," Mama said with a laugh, handing me another slice.

I took my plate out to the porch after dinner, sitting on the steps as the night settled in around me. The lightning bugs blinked in the yard, and the stars were just beginning to peek out in the darkening sky. I couldn't help but smile. Days like this felt like they were made to last forever.

The morning sun streamed through the window, turning the worn wooden floorboards into streaks of gold. I sat at the kitchen table, doodling on a scrap of paper with a stubby pencil, my feet swinging back and forth above the ground. The smell of yeast and flour filled the room as Mama kneaded dough for bread, her strong hands working with practiced rhythm. Her apron, speckled with flour, swayed as she leaned into the motion. Outside, the cicadas were already singing, their buzzing mixing with the faint sound of hammering coming from the direction of town.

Papa had left before dawn, his boots crunching over the gravel driveway as he loaded up his truck. I'd heard the familiar clink of his tools and the soft rumble of the engine as he pulled away. He worked as a carpenter, building and fixing things all over Folkston. Folks said he had a knack for turning wood into something beautiful, and I believed it. Every piece he made felt like it had a story. My favorite was the little carved bird he brought me last year, its tiny wings stretched like it was ready to take flight. It sat on my windowsill, catching the light just right every morning.

"What're you drawing, Emily?" Mama asked, glancing over her shoulder with a quick smile, her braid slipping over her shoulder.

"Just stuff," I said, holding up the paper. It was a rough sketch of a treehouse, complete with a ladder, a rope swing, and even a little flag at the top. "Do you think Papa could make me one of these?"

Mama's laugh was soft, like the rustle of wind through the trees. "I think if you ask him real nice, he just might. But don't go expectin' it tomorrow. He's got plenty of work on his plate already."

I sighed, setting the drawing down with a dramatic huff. "I know. He's always busy."

"Well, that's why you and I need to keep this house runnin'," Mama said, her voice gentle but firm. She dusted her hands off on her apron and gave me a knowing look. "Speaking of which, there's laundry to hang and the chickens need feedin'. Think you can handle that while I finish up here?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said, hopping down from the chair. My bare feet hit the cool floor with a soft thud, and I grabbed the basket of wet clothes Mama had already scrubbed in the basin.

The sun was already warming the yard as I stepped outside, the grass cool and damp under my feet. Mama didn't like me running around barefoot, always warning about snakes or splinters, but I couldn't help myself. Feeling the earth beneath me made me feel alive, like I was connected to something bigger.

I pulled a damp shirt from the basket and pinned it to the line, the wooden clothespins clicking into place. The breeze tugged at the fabric, making it ripple like waves on the creek. Our chickens clucked and flapped around the yard, scratching at the dirt for any hidden treats. Ruby, the feisty red hen with a sharp beak and sharper attitude, strutted over, her head cocked like she was inspecting my work.

"You wait your turn," I said, wagging a finger at her. "The feed's comin' after this."

Ruby tilted her head, her beady eyes glinting, before clucking in what sounded like protest. I ignored her sass, finishing up the clothes before grabbing the feed bucket. The grain rattled inside as I walked toward the coop, and the chickens swarmed me like I was the queen of the yard. Ruby, as usual, was first in line, snatching a piece of grain midair with a triumphant hop.

"Show-off," I muttered, grinning as I scattered the rest of the feed across the ground.

With my chores done, the whole day stretched ahead of me like an empty canvas. I grabbed my trusty stick-sword from the porch and a small jar I'd washed out the day before. My sights were set on the creek, a cool sanctuary where dragonflies danced, and frogs played hide-and-seek.

The path to the creek was shaded by tall pines, their needles carpeting the ground in a soft, fragrant layer. I swung my stick-sword at imaginary foes, clearing the way for my pirate crew. The creek itself was clear and cool, its surface sparkling in the dappled sunlight.

I crouched down by the water, the mud squishing between my toes as I waited, still as a stone. A little green frog hopped onto a nearby rock, its round eyes glinting like marbles. Slowly, I reached out with my jar, but the frog had other plans. It leapt into the water with a splash, leaving me laughing at my empty hands.

"I'll get you next time," I said, tipping my imaginary hat to the little critter.

I spent the next hour splashing through the water, my overalls soaked to the knees. I climbed a low tree near the bank, pretending it was the crow's nest of my pirate ship.

"Ahoy!" I shouted, waving my stick-sword. "Surrender or face the plank!"

A squirrel chattered from a branch above, and I saluted it. "Welcome aboard, First Mate Nutters. We've got treasure to find."

By the time I made it back home, the sun was dipping low, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Mama was on the porch, snapping beans into a big metal bowl. She looked up as I approached, her eyes twinkling with amusement at the sight of my muddy clothes.

"Had yourself an adventure, did you?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, ma'am," I said, plopping down on the steps beside her. "I didn't find any treasure, but I'll try again tomorrow."

Mama chuckled, shaking her head. "Well, get yourself cleaned up before Papa gets home. Supper'll be ready soon."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, grinning as I headed to the garden hose. The cool water washed away the mud, and as I stood there, watching the last rays of sunlight filter through the trees, I felt that familiar pull of adventure. Tomorrow was another day, and who knew what it might bring?

When Papa's truck rolled into the yard, I was already perched on the porch, my bare feet tapping excitedly against the wooden boards like a song only I could hear. The evening sun dipped low, painting the sky a fiery orange and casting long shadows over the yard. As soon as I spotted him climbing down, his toolbox in hand, I bolted down the steps and across the dirt yard, my arms flailing with excitement. Dust puffed up behind me, sticking to my legs, but I didn't care.

"Papa! Papa! You're home!" I shouted, skidding to a stop just shy of crashing into him.

He chuckled, a deep, familiar sound that made my heart feel all warm and snug. Setting his toolbox down with a clink, he reached out to ruffle my hair, his calloused fingers catching a few tangles. "Well, look at you, tearin' across the yard like a wild thing. Did you miss me that much, Emily?"

"I did!" I said, bouncing on my toes like I was fixing to burst. "How was work? Did you make somethin' neat?"

Papa smiled, wiping his hands on his dusty trousers. His shirt sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, showing the faint smudges of sawdust still clinging to his arms. "I might've made somethin' special. But you'll have to wait till after supper to see it."

I groaned, dragging the sound out as long as I could. "Aww, Papa, that's too long!" I protested, crossing my arms. But he just laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners the way they always did when he was amused.

"Go help your mama set the table," he said, bending to pick up his toolbox. "I'll be in soon."

I dashed back to the house, my bare feet kicking up more dust as I went. "Don't forget to bring it in!" I called over my shoulder.

Mama was already in the kitchen, flipping the switch to light the room. The bulbs cast a warm yellow glow over the worn wooden table and the checkered curtains that fluttered slightly in the breeze from the open window. She was peeling potatoes, her hands working quick and steady.

"Slow down, Emily, before you knock somethin' over," she warned, though there was a smile tugging at her lips.

"Papa's home!" I said, grabbing plates from the cupboard and nearly dropping one in my excitement. "And he said he made somethin' special!"

"Did he now?" Mama said, pausing to wipe her hands on her apron. Her smile grew, soft and knowing. "Well, let's get supper ready so we can all hear about it."

We set the table in record time, the sound of plates and cutlery clinking filling the small kitchen. Outside, the cicadas started their evening song, blending with the faint creak of the rocking chair on the porch where Papa always liked to sit. The smells of fried chicken and roasted vegetables soon filled the air, and my stomach rumbled loud enough that Mama shot me a teasing look.

"Guess somebody's ready to eat," she said with a wink.

When we finally sat down, the meal felt like a feast. Papa shared stories about his day in town, talking about the new lumber yard and the old man who ran it, who apparently had a knack for telling jokes that'd make your sides split. I hung onto every word, laughing along, but my curiosity about the surprise was nearly bubbling over.

After the plates were cleared and Mama brought out a slice of pie for each of us, Papa leaned back in his chair, reaching for something wrapped in cloth that he'd set on the counter earlier. "Alright now, Emily," he said, his voice taking on a playful lilt, "this here's for you."

My eyes went wide as saucers as he handed me the bundle. I held it carefully, unwrapping the cloth as if it held the world's most delicate treasure. When the tiny wooden fox was revealed, my breath caught. Its tail curled just so, and its little face looked so lifelike I half-expected it to blink at me. The wood gleamed under the kitchen light, smooth and polished to perfection.

"It's beautiful," I whispered, cradling it in my hands like it was a baby bird. "Thank you, Papa!"

He smiled, the pride plain on his face. "I figured you'd like it, after all those tracks we saw the other day by the creek. Thought it might make a fine little treasure for my adventurer."

I beamed, holding the fox up so the light caught every curve and detail. It felt warm in my hands, like it was already mine in every way that mattered. "It's perfect," I said, my voice a mix of awe and joy.

Papa leaned back with a satisfied look, sipping his sweet tea. "Well, don't lose it now. Every adventurer needs somethin' to remind 'em where they've been."

That little fox sat on my bedside table that night, and I stared at it until my eyes grew heavy, imagining all the adventures we'd have together. It felt like the perfect end to a perfect day.

After dinner, I grabbed my little wooden fox, and headed outside with Mama and Papa. The air outside was thick with the heat of the day, but the evening breeze was doing its best to sweep it all away. The porch swing creaked softly as Mama settled in with a glass of iced tea, her favorite blue glass clinking as she swirled the ice around. Papa leaned back in his rocking chair, his hands clasped behind his head like he didn't have a care in the world.

I plopped down on the steps, resting my elbows on my knees and letting my feet dangle just above the grass. The yard stretched out in front of me, the shadows of the pine trees casting long arms over the ground, their needles swaying in the gentle wind. I traced the grooves of my wooden fox with my thumb, feeling the ridges of its carved fur.

The lightning bugs had started their nightly dance, tiny golden lights flickering and weaving through the darkness like stars come to visit. They floated above the grass and near the edge of the porch, teasing and taunting with their soft glows. I reached out, trying to catch one, but it blinked out of sight just as my fingers brushed the air.

"Careful now," Papa said with a chuckle, the low rumble of his voice blending perfectly with the night sounds. "Those little things are trickier than they look."

The hum of the swamp animals wrapped around us like a warm quilt. Frogs croaked in a steady rhythm, their deep voices blending with the higher chirps of crickets. Every now and then, the distant call of a whip-poor-will echoed through the trees, adding a lonesome but soothing note to the symphony. The sounds filled every quiet moment between our words, like the swamp itself was part of our conversation.

"You hear that?" Mama asked, her voice soft and calm as the breeze that rustled the leaves. "That's the sound of home."

I nodded, closing my eyes for a moment to take it all in. The warm breeze carried the scent of honeysuckle and damp earth, with just a hint of smoke from the wood stove lingering in the air. It smelled like safety, like the kind of place where nothing could go wrong. The sound of the swamp animals, the sway of the swing, and the steady creak of Papa's chair felt like a lullaby meant just for us.

"It's peaceful out here," I said, opening my eyes to watch another lightning bug blink close to my feet. "I bet they don't have nights like this in big cities."

Mama smiled, her eyes soft and kind as she looked out over the yard. "No, they sure don't. But that's why we're lucky, Emily. We get to grow up with all this." She waved her hand at the night, like she was showing me something precious. The glow of the lightning bugs caught in her movement, like her hand was part of the magic, too.

Papa rocked back and forth, the rhythm of his chair matching the gentle sway of the porch swing. "When I was your age, I used to catch lightning bugs in a jar and pretend they were stars. Thought I could keep a piece of the night for myself."

"Did it work?" I asked, leaning back to look up at him, my wooden fox clutched against my chest.

He shook his head with a smile. "Not for long. They're better off out here, don't you think?"

I nodded, watching as one of the little lights blinked and floated past me, its glow fading into the trees. "Yeah, I think so."

The night wrapped around us, thick and comforting, like the swamp itself was glad to have us sitting there. We sat like that for a long time, just listening to the sounds of the swamp and watching the lightning bugs dance. The world felt big and small all at once, like it belonged just to us. Mama's iced tea glass clinked softly every now and then, Papa's chair creaked a steady rhythm, and the lightning bugs kept their secrets.

As the night deepened and the stars came out, I held my wooden fox close, feeling like I had everything I needed right here on this porch. The swamp, the stars, the lightning bugs—they were all ours tonight, and I didn't want to trade them for anything in the world.

The morning started like most others—Mama in the kitchen, humming softly as she made breakfast, and Papa already off to work. But today felt different. There was a buzz in the air, a feeling I couldn't quite place.

As I pushed my fork through my scrambled eggs, Mama set her coffee down and gave me a knowing look. "Emily, you know what's right around the corner, don't you?"

I paused mid-bite, then groaned. "School..."

Mama chuckled. "Don't sound so excited now."

"I just—" I started, but stopped. I didn't really know how to explain it. I liked learnin' and all, but school was different. There were other kids, and sometimes it felt like I didn't fit just right. I liked climbin' trees and catchin' frogs, and a lot of the girls at school liked pretty dresses and sittin' around talkin' about things I didn't care much for.

Mama must've noticed the look on my face. She reached over and gave my hand a squeeze. "You'll do just fine, sugar. You're smart as a whip, and you're kind. That's what matters."

I nodded, though I wasn't so sure. "We goin' to town for supplies?"

"That's the plan. We need notebooks, pencils, and you'll need some new shoes. You wore the soles clear through those old ones."

I glanced down at my bare feet under the table and smiled. "I like not wearin' shoes."

Mama laughed. "I know you do, but they won't let you run 'round the classroom barefoot."

We finished breakfast, and soon we were loading up in the truck, heading into town. The breeze from the open windows was warm, carrying the scent of pine and a hint of something sweet—maybe honeysuckle.

As we drove past the familiar houses and fields, I watched the trees blur by and thought about what this year at school might bring. Would it be better? Worse? I didn't know, but part of me hoped maybe I'd find someone a little like me—someone who liked swords and frogs and adventures.

I thought we were just going to the Dollar General, but Mama decided we'd head to Regency Square Mall in Jacksonville instead. When she mentioned it, I nearly dropped my fork.

"Jacksonville? Really? That's far, Mama."

"I know, sugar," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "But you need some decent shoes that'll last you all year, and the Dollar General just doesn't cut it for that. Plus, we can get all your school things in one go."

I didn't argue. A trip to the mall was special. It was bigger and busier than our little town, with bright lights, shiny floors, and stores full of things I didn't even know I wanted until I saw them.

We climbed into the truck, the seats warm from the sun. I liked the drive to Jacksonville. It was long, but the kind of long that made you feel like you were goin' somewhere important. Mama rolled down the windows, letting the warm breeze rush in as we pulled onto the highway.

For a while, we just listened to the hum of the tires and the crickets that seemed to be everywhere this time of year. But before long, I started talkin'. I always did.

"Mama, do you think I'll have the same teacher this year?"

"I don't know, baby. You liked Miss Parker, didn't you?"

I nodded. "She was nice. She let me read the chapter books even though the other kids weren't readin' them yet."

Mama smiled. "That's because you're a smart girl. You always have been. But school's more than just books. You makin' any new friends this year?"

I shrugged, kickin' my feet up on the dashboard until Mama gave me a look, and I quickly put 'em back down. "I don't know. The girls... they don't really like playin' what I like. They wanna talk about hair and wear dresses. I tried, Mama, but I don't really like all that."

Mama glanced over at me, her eyes soft. "Ain't nothin' wrong with that, Emily. You're you. And any friend worth havin' will like you just the way you are."

I fiddled with the hem of my shorts, lettin' her words settle in. "You think Papa would build me a treehouse?"

Mama laughed. "You're still on that, huh?"

"I was thinkin' maybe it could have a rope ladder... and a place to hide if I wanted to read. Like a fort."

"Well, you talk to your Papa about it when we get home. He might make you work for it, though."

"That's okay. I'd work real hard."

We passed through the outskirts of Folkston, and I perked up as we neared the railroad tracks. We slowed down at the crossing, and I craned my neck, hopin' to catch sight of a train.

"You see anything?" Mama asked, already knowin' what I was doin'.

"Not yet..." I leaned forward, eyes squinting against the sun. Then, like it was waitin' just for me, I heard the distant rumble and the low horn. "There it is!" I pointed, practically bouncin' in my seat.

The Folkston Funnel was famous 'round here. Trains from all over passed through, headin' down to Florida or up the coast. They didn't stop in Folkston, but folks still came to watch them. Sometimes, people even brought lawn chairs and cameras, sittin' by the tracks like it was a baseball game.

"That one's movin' fast," Mama said as we watched the long line of freight cars roll past. "Headin' south, I bet."

"Where do you think it's goin'?" I asked, eyes wide as the train sped through.

"Could be Jacksonville. Could be Miami. Maybe even all the way down to Key West."

I let out a low whistle. "That's far."

"Sure is. That's the thing about trains, baby—they're always goin' somewhere."

I thought about that as we drove on, the train disappearin' into the distance. Sometimes, I wished I could hop on one of those trains and see where it went. Maybe it'd take me somewhere with pirates or cowboys—or a place where I could build a treehouse so high up it touched the sky.

The rest of the drive was quieter, but it felt good—just me and Mama, the windows down, the warm Georgia breeze tangled in our hair. Jacksonville Mall wasn't far now. Soon, we'd be walking through those big glass doors, pickin' out notebooks, pencils, and maybe—just maybe—some shoes that didn't pinch my toes.

But for now, I was happy right where I was.

The drive to Jacksonville felt like it took forever, but when we finally pulled into the parking lot of Regency Square Mall, I perked up. The place was big—way bigger than anywhere back home in Folkston.

But what caught my eye right away was the AMC Theatres across the parking lot, its bright sign standing tall above the cars. A huge movie poster hung on the side of the building, showing a spaceship zippin' through the stars with a group of cartoon characters aboard.

Disney Pixar's The Enchanted Galaxy.

I pressed my face to the window before Mama even parked. "Mama, look! That's the new movie I was talkin' about. Can we see it sometime? Please?"

Mama glanced over, smiling as she shifted the truck into park. "We'll see, sugar. Maybe we can come back with Papa one weekend."

I sat back with a sigh, but my eyes stayed on that poster. It looked like the kind of movie that would make you wanna run outside and pretend you were explorin' planets as soon as it was over.

Once we got inside the mall, the cool air hit me, and I felt a little better about not seein' the movie—at least for now. Mama led me straight toward Jimmy Jazz, one of the shoe stores she liked. It was loud inside, with music thumpin' through the speakers and racks of sneakers that seemed to go on forever.

Rows of bright, clean shoes lined the walls—reds, blues, yellows, ones with stripes, and some with shiny silver designs. I wandered over to a shelf with sneakers that had little splashes of purple and orange. They looked fast, like the kind you'd wear if you needed to race through the woods and leap over stumps like a deer.

Mama was already chattin' with a saleslady. "We're lookin' for something sturdy. She's rough on her shoes."

The lady laughed. "We got just the thing."

A few minutes later, I was tryin' on a pair of white sneakers with blue and green on the sides. I walked back and forth a few times, even jogged a little when Mama wasn't lookin'.

"These feel good," I said, grinnin'. "Real good."

Mama nodded, satisfied. "That'll last you through the school year—if you don't go climbin' too many trees in 'em."

I made no promises.

As we paid, I snuck another glance toward the glass doors of the mall, where the AMC sign was still visible through the windows. I wondered if anyone was sittin' in those theater seats right now, watchin' the spaceship blast off into the galaxy.

After we left Jimmy Jazz, Mama led me toward the part of the mall where they sold school supplies. We passed a few clothing stores, and I stared up at a big sign with models wearing fancy jeans and jackets that didn't look the least bit comfortable.

Mama noticed me eyein' it and smirked. "Don't worry, we're not buyin' you any of those."

"Good," I said. "They look like they'd be hard to climb trees in."

We made our way into a store that had shelves stacked high with notebooks, pens, crayons, and all kinds of things. The smell of new paper and plastic filled the air, and the floors were so shiny I could see my reflection when I looked down.

Mama pulled out her list. "Alright, we need some notebooks, pencils, a couple folders... and—Emily, stop playin' with the rulers."

I had been tappin' a plastic ruler against my hand like it was a sword.

"Sorry," I mumbled, putting it back.

As we worked our way through the aisles, I helped pick out a notebook with blue swirls on the cover and a pencil box with little frogs printed on it. Mama let me pick some crayons even though I was old enough for colored pencils now. I still liked crayons. They felt simple, and they smelled nice.

When we finished up, we stepped back into the main part of the mall, and that's when I noticed it—a big sign, way taller than me, with bold letters:

IMPACT CHURCH.

The doors were glass, but I couldn't see much inside. The windows were tinted, and everything about it just seemed... bigger than I expected. Bigger than our little white church back home. It looked important, like the kind of place you had to dress real nice to walk into.

I tugged on Mama's hand. "Mama... why is there a church in the mall?"

Mama glanced over. "Oh, that's Impact Church. It's a big one. Some churches don't look like ours. They don't all have steeples or sit out in the country. Some are right in places like this."

"In a mall?" I wrinkled my nose. "That's kinda weird, ain't it?"

Mama smiled. "It might seem that way, but it's still church. Doesn't matter what the buildin' looks like. Long as folks are there together, praisin' the Lord, that's what counts."

I thought about that as we started walkin' again. I peeked back at the doors, still wonderin' what it looked like inside. It was kinda funny—right there next to a shoe store and across from a place sellin' phone cases, there was a whole church.

Maybe it wasn't so different, though. Maybe church could be anywhere, as long as you had the right people with you.

I slipped my hand into Mama's as we walked toward the food court, my new shoes swingin' in the bag by my side, and my mind still wonderin' about all the different ways folks found their way to God.

After we finished getting my school supplies, Mama checked her watch.

"Well, we've got a little time. Anything else you want to look at before we go?" she asked.

I thought for a second. "Can we go to the toy store? Just to look?"

Mama raised an eyebrow, but she was smiling. "Alright, but just lookin'. We've spent enough today."

I grinned and followed her through the mall. We ended up in a store filled with shelves stacked high with toys—board games, action figures, dolls, and those little animal figurines I liked collectin'. I wandered down the aisles, pickin' things up, pushin' buttons that made noises, and dreamin' about all the cool stuff I'd buy if I ever had a million dollars.

I lingered by a display of plastic dinosaurs, runnin' my fingers over a bright red T-Rex with its mouth wide open. I pretended it was stompin' through our backyard, chasin' Ruby and the other chickens around while I fought it off with my stick-sword.

Mama let me wander for a bit before callin', "Alright, Emily, time to head out."

I sighed, puttin' the T-Rex back. "Okay, Mama."

On our way toward the exit, my stomach let out a loud growl. Mama heard it, and we both laughed.

"I guess all that shoppin' worked up an appetite," she said. "How about we get a bite before we head home?"

"Can we get fries?" I asked, my eyes lightin' up.

"I reckon we can manage that," Mama said with a wink.

We drove down the road and pulled into a Burger King. The smell of fries and burgers hit me the second we stepped inside. I ordered a kid's meal with nuggets and got one of those little plastic toys inside. It was some kind of robot that looked like it transformed into a car, though I couldn't quite figure it out.

Mama got a burger, and we sat by the window, watchin' cars pass by while we ate. I dipped my fries in ketchup, takin' my time because fast food was a rare treat.

"You excited for school now that you got all your stuff?" Mama asked between bites.

I shrugged. "A little. I just hope this year's better than last."

Mama reached over and squeezed my hand. "I think it will be. And even if it's not, you'll get through it. You're strong."

That made me smile. "Thanks, Mama."

After we finished, we got back in the truck and started the drive home. The sun was lower in the sky now, hangin' just above the trees, and the road stretched out long and straight in front of us.

As we passed by Walmart, I sat up a little.

"Mama... why didn't we just go there for everything?" I asked. "They got shoes and school stuff too."

Mama laughed softly, keepin' her eyes on the road. "Oh, I know, but I like goin' to the mall sometimes. Feels nice, like a little adventure. Plus, that mall has more choices for shoes. And we got to spend some time together."

I thought about it, then nodded. "Yeah... I guess I like it better too."

"Good," Mama said. "Besides, if we went to Walmart, we'd probably still be in there, tryin' to get out."

We both laughed because it was true. Walmart was big, and sometimes it felt like you could get lost in there.

The drive home was peaceful. We passed the train tracks again, but no train this time. The sky turned pink and purple, and the trees along the highway cast long shadows over the road.

I leaned my head against the window, watchin' the trees blur by. My belly was full, my feet had new shoes, and my backpack was gonna be packed with fresh supplies for school.

It had been a good day.

The morning sun peeked over the trees as I stood by the front door, my backpack slung over my shoulder and my new shoes laced up tight. Today was the first day of third grade at Folkston Elementary, and even though I was nervous, I was a little excited too.

Mama smoothed my hair down, even though I knew it would get messy again before I made it to the bus stop. "You ready, sugar?"

"I think so," I said, though my stomach was doing little flips.

"Don't forget your lunch," she said, handin' me a brown paper bag.

I took it and peeked inside—peanut butter and jelly, an apple, and some crackers. Just what I liked.

I walked to the bus stop down the dirt road, feelin' the warmth of the morning sun on my back. My heart raced as I wondered who'd be in my class this year. Would Miss Parker still be my teacher? Would the other girls still whisper about their dresses and hair?

Up ahead, I spotted her—Abby Parker, my best friend since we were little. She was wearin' her usual shorts and a t-shirt, her backpack slung low on her back. Her blonde hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and the second she saw me, she grinned.

"Emily!" she called, waving like she hadn't seen me in years, even though we'd been fishin' at the creek just last week.

"Abby!" I shouted back, runnin' up to meet her.

"You ready for third grade?" she asked, though her tone made it sound like we were headin' into battle.

"As ready as I'll ever be," I said with a grin.

We fell into step together, talkin' about what we thought this year would be like—whether we'd get to sit next to each other, and if Miss Parker, her aunt, was still teachin' third grade. Abby told me she heard there was a new boy in our grade, and we both wondered what he'd be like.

When the bus finally arrived, we climbed on together, sittin' in our usual spot near the middle. I felt a little braver knowin' Abby was right there beside me.

When we got to Folkston Elementary, the bus hissed to a stop, and Abby and I hopped down onto the gravel. Kids were everywhere—runnin', laughin', huggin' friends they hadn't seen all summer. The building looked the same as always, with its brick walls and windows that rattled a little when the wind blew just right.

I was feelin' pretty good—until we stepped into our classroom.

That's when I saw him.

A man was standin' at the front, writin' his name on the chalkboard in big, neat letters.

Mr. Johnson.

Not Miss Parker.

My heart sank. I looked at Abby, and she must've felt the same way 'cause her face had that same confused look.

"Where's your aunt?" I whispered.

Abby shrugged. "I dunno. Mama didn't say nothin' about her not teachin' this year."

I slid into a seat near the window, suddenly not feelin' as excited anymore. I had been hoping and hoping all summer that we'd get Miss Parker again. She was always so kind—let me read ahead when I wanted, didn't mind when I asked a million questions, and never fussed when my shoes were a little muddy from playin' outside before school.

Mr. Johnson looked nice enough, I guess. He had brown hair that was kinda messy, and he wore a blue shirt with his sleeves rolled up. He smiled as more kids came in, but it wasn't the same.

I leaned over to Abby. "What if he's mean?"

She snorted. "He don't look mean. But I liked your aunt better."

"Me too."

Mr. Johnson clapped his hands together once we were all settled. "Alright, third graders. Welcome back! We're gonna have a great year."

I tried sittin' up a little straighter, but my heart still felt heavy. I kept glancin' at the door, half-hopin' Miss Parker would walk in and say there was some kind of mistake. But she didn't.

Mr. Johnson grabbed a clipboard off his desk. "Let's start with attendance. Gotta make sure I know who's who."

He started readin' names, his voice calm but firm. "Abby Parker?"

"Here," Abby said, sittin' up a little taller.

"Thomas Reed?"

"Here."

I waited, twiddlin' my thumbs under the desk. Each name felt like it took forever. Then finally—

"Emily Saunders?"

"Here," I said, maybe a little louder than I meant to. My voice cracked just a bit.

Mr. Johnson glanced up and smiled. "Good. Gotcha."

I gave a small nod, but my mind was still on Miss Parker. Her classroom had always felt warm—like you could breathe easy. This? This just felt different. I didn't know if it was bad... but it wasn't what I wanted.

When Mr. Johnson finished callin' names, he set the clipboard down and leaned against his desk. "Looks like we've got a good bunch this year. I'm new to third grade, but I've been teaching for a long time. We'll get along just fine."

I glanced at Abby. She gave me a quick smile, like she was sayin', "See? It's okay."

I smiled back... but it still didn't feel okay. Not yet.

After Mr. Johnson finished attendance, he clapped his hands together, like he was wakin' us all up.

"Alright, class. Let's get started with math," he said, picking up a piece of chalk. "This year, we'll be learning multiplication."

I felt my stomach twist up a little. I liked math, but multiplication sounded like one of those big, grown-up words that made my head hurt.

"We're gonna start with the zeros," he continued, writing Multiplication – 0s on the board. "Now, who knows what multiplication means?"

A few kids raised their hands. Jacob, the boy who always acted like he knew everything, spoke up first.

"It's just like adding, right? You just add the number together over and over."

Mr. Johnson nodded slowly. "Hmm... kinda, but not exactly. We'll talk more about that soon. Let's try some examples."

He wrote 0 x 1 = ? on the board.

"Anyone know what this is?" he asked.

Jacob raised his hand again. "One?"

Mr. Johnson didn't say anything right away. He just looked at the board and let Jacob's answer hang in the air.

A few other kids started noddin'. "Yeah, it's one. 'Cause zero plus one is one," Jessica said.

Mr. Johnson smiled a little but didn't give the answer. "Okay... What about this one?"

He wrote 0 x 2 = ?

"Two!" Jacob blurted out.

"Three!" someone else called.

I furrowed my brow. It didn't sound right to me. I stared at those zeros. Somethin' about them felt... empty.

Mr. Johnson kept goin', writin' 0 x 3 = ?

"Three!" a girl in the back said.

"Wait," I whispered to Abby. "That don't make sense."

She shrugged. "It's like addin', right?"

I thought hard, my eyes fixed on the zeros.

Then it clicked.

My hand shot up, and before he even called on me, the words spilled out. "It's zero!"

Mr. Johnson finally turned from the board. "Why do you say that, Emily?"

"'Cause... you don't got nothin' to add together," I said, feelin' my cheeks get warm. "Zero's nothin', right? So if you do nothin' two times... you still got nothin'. It don't matter how many times you do it."

The room got quiet.

Mr. Johnson grinned. "That's it. That's exactly it."

He circled the zeros on the board. "See, multiplication is like adding the same number over and over, but if you're starting with zero, you've got nothing to add. So the answer is always zero."

A few kids groaned. Jacob looked like he'd swallowed a lemon.

Abby leaned over and whispered, "You're smart."

I grinned. "I know."

Mr. Johnson clapped his hands together. "Alright, now let's try some more—together this time."

As we worked through the problems, I felt a little taller in my seat. Maybe multiplication wasn't so scary after all.

After math, Mr. Johnson set his chalk down and dusted his hands off like he was ready to move on.

"All right, class. Let's shift gears to reading," he said, his words crisp and clear, each letter sounding just the way it should. His voice was different from most folks around here—no dropping letters or stretching words. It was proper, the kind of talk you heard on the news sometimes.

Readin'—reading—was my favorite. Always had been. I sat up a little straighter, even though my hand was already sore from writin' out all those zero times tables.

Mr. Johnson picked up a neat stack of thin books from his desk. They looked brand new, with bright covers showing kids playin' outside and dogs chasin' sticks.

"We'll begin with these readers," he said, walkin' between our desks and handing them out. "Today, we'll take turns reading aloud. Just a few sentences each. No need to rush. The important thing is to read each word clearly."

I took my book and flipped through it. There were stories about kids fishin'—fishing—by a pond, and others with talking animals. It wasn't as good as the chapter books I read at home, but it was still a book. And that made it all right.

Once everyone had a book, Mr. Johnson paused, looking at all of us. "Before we start, I want to say something important. We're going to work on not just reading the words, but how we say them. You all are bright, wonderful students, but sometimes we get a little too relaxed when we speak. We might drop letters off the end of our words or mash things together."

I squirmed a little. I knew what he meant. I did it all the time—fishin', runnin', talkin'—it was just the way folks spoke around here.

"But speaking clearly is important," Mr. Johnson went on. "It'll help you later in life—whether you're applying for a job, talking to someone important, or even reading to your own children someday."

I nodded slowly. I liked the way Papa talked, all easy and familiar, but I understood what Mr. Johnson meant. I wanted to sound smart when it mattered.

We started reading out loud, and just like in math, some kids struggled. Jacob stumbled over words, and Jessica rushed like she was late for the bus. When it was my turn, I read steady, but I caught myself sayin' fixin' instead of fixing, and I cringed a little.

Mr. Johnson smiled when I finished. "Very good, Emily. You read smoothly. And just remember, we're all working on making those endings nice and clear—ing, not in. You'll get there."

I smiled, feelin' both proud and a little embarrassed.

As we moved on, I noticed Abby wasn't as into it. She liked drawin' more than readin', and that was okay. We were different, but we fit together just right.

When the lesson ended, Mr. Johnson closed his book. "Great start today. We'll get better every day. And remember—clear words, clear minds."

As we closed our books, I thought about it. I liked the way Mama and Papa spoke, but maybe it wouldn't hurt to learn both ways—so I could talk clear when it mattered, and still sound like me when I was home.

Maybe this year was gonna teach me more than I thought.

After reading, we had another class—science, I think—but my mind was startin' to wander by then. We learned a little about plants, how their roots dig down deep to drink water from the ground, and how leaves need sunlight to stay green. I liked the part about the roots, 'cause it made me think of the big oak tree in our yard—the one I loved climbin'. I wondered how far its roots stretched under the ground, maybe all the way past the chicken coop.

But mostly, I was watchin' the clock.

By the time Mr. Johnson set his book down and said, "Alright, let's head outside for recess," I was already halfway out of my seat.

Abby grinned at me. We both knew recess was the best part of the day.

We hurried outside with the rest of the kids, the warm Georgia sun hittin' my face the second we stepped onto the playground. The air smelled like fresh grass and a little bit like sweat. The blacktop was already hot under our shoes, but I didn't care. I was free—for a little while, at least.

The swings were already taken, and a group of boys was kickin' a soccer ball around. Me and Abby made a beeline for the old tire structure near the edge of the playground. It had been there forever—half-buried tires stickin' out of the ground like a little obstacle course. We liked climbin' over them and pretendin' they were part of some adventure, like we were explorin' ruins or battlin' pirates.

"You think we'll get homework today?" Abby asked, balancin' on top of one of the bigger tires.

"Hope not," I said, climbin' up beside her. "I got frogs to catch after school."

She laughed. "Of course you do."

We jumped from tire to tire, our backpacks and classrooms far from our minds. For a little while, it was just the sun, the dirt, and our imaginations.

While me and Abby were hoppin' across the tires, a group of boys started gatherin' near the soccer field. Jacob was leadin' them—he always liked to act like he was in charge. They were kickin' a ball around, but it wasn't just a game. I could tell from the way they were lookin' over our way. Somethin' was brewin'.

"Hey, Emily!" Jacob called out, hands cupped around his mouth. "You girls too scared to play?"

I looked at Abby, who was smirkin'.

"We ain't scared of nothin'," I shot back.

A few girls nearby perked up, hearin' what was goin' on. Jessica and Megan came over, eyes bright with curiosity.

Jacob grinned. "Boys against girls. Soccer. Right now."

I felt my heart race. I loved stuff like this. It was all in fun, but it felt important—like we had somethin' to prove. And I liked playin' with the boys sometimes. I felt like I could keep up with them, even if some of the girls didn't always like gettin' dirty.

I glanced at Abby. "You in?"

She shrugged but was smilin'. "Why not?"

"Y'all are goin' down," I called back to Jacob.

"We'll see about that!" he laughed.

It wasn't serious—nothin' more than a bunch of kids kickin' a ball around—but it felt like a big deal to us. The boys played rough, runnin' fast and callin' out plays like they were in some big league. Us girls, though? We were quick. And we had somethin' to prove.

The ball shot across the field, and I sprinted after it, feelin' my heart pound in my chest. My new shoes gripped the grass better than my old ones would've, and I was glad Mama had taken me to get them.

Jacob was quick—he always was—but I was quicker. I darted in front of him, stretchin' my leg out just in time to nudge the ball away. He stumbled a little, but he laughed, not mad, just more determined.

"Nice one, Emily!" Abby cheered from the side, clappin' her hands.

I grinned but didn't look back. I kept chasin' the ball, zig-zaggin' between the boys. Jessica was on my right, and Megan was further back, ready to block if the ball got kicked our way. We were workin' together, and it felt good—like we were our own little team.

"Pass it, Emily!" Jessica called.

I kicked the ball toward her, but it went a little off course. Jacob darted in, interceptin' it. He turned and charged toward the other side of the field.

"No, you don't!" I yelled, takin' off after him.

I caught up, but he passed it to Thomas, one of his friends, and suddenly, it felt like the boys were gettin' the upper hand. They were fast, but we were smart.

"Block him, Abby!" I called.

She dashed in front of Thomas, wavin' her arms. He hesitated, and that's all it took. I slid in, kickin' the ball out from under him.

"Got it!" I shouted, feelin' the thrill rush through me.

I dribbled fast toward the goal—well, the "goal," which was really just two jackets laid down as markers. Jacob was hot on my heels, and I knew if I waited too long, he'd catch me.

I planted my foot and kicked as hard as I could.

The ball flew—straight between the jackets.

"GOAL!" Abby screamed, throwin' her hands up.

The girls cheered, and I threw my arms in the air like I'd just won the World Cup.

Jacob huffed, hands on his hips, but he was smilin'. "Alright, alright... that was good."

I wiped the sweat off my brow, grinnin' so wide my cheeks hurt.

"We ain't done yet," Jacob said, pickin' up the ball.

I glanced at Abby, and she gave me a nod. We were ready.

For the rest of recess, we ran, laughed, and played our hearts out—Boys vs. Girls. There weren't any real winners or losers, just a bunch of kids runnin' wild under the hot sun, feelin' free.

When the whistle blew, callin' us back inside, we were all pantin', sweaty, and smilin'.

"That was fun," Jacob said, joggin' up beside me as we walked back toward the school.

"Yeah, it was," I agreed.

"We'll get y'all next time," he teased.

I smirked. "We'll see about that."

Me and Abby bumped fists as we stepped inside, our faces still flushed from runnin'.

It was only the first day of school, but it already felt like this year might just be a good one.

By the time we made it back inside, my shirt was stickin' to my back, and my face was hot from runnin' in the sun. The air conditioning in the hallway felt like heaven.

Me and Abby made our way to the cafeteria, still talkin' about the soccer game.

"You almost tripped Jacob that one time," I said, laughin'.

"I wasn't tryin' to," Abby giggled. "He just runs like a baby deer."

We grabbed our lunches—me with my brown paper bag Mama packed, and Abby with her lunch box that had faded rainbows on it. We found a seat at the long table near the window, where you could see part of the playground.

I pulled out my sandwich, an apple, and some crackers. Abby had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, too, but she also had one of those little snack cakes with chocolate and cream in the middle. I eyed it.

"You tradin' that cake?" I asked, half-teasin'.

She held it close to her chest. "Not today."

I laughed and took a bite of my sandwich.

Kids were chatterin' all around us, the cafeteria fillin' with the sound of crinklin' wrappers and clinkin' milk cartons. The boys from the soccer game sat a few seats down, still jokin' around, talkin' about how they'd win tomorrow.

Jacob called over, "We're bringin' our best game tomorrow!"

"We ain't scared," I shot back, smilin'.

Me and Abby talked about everything and nothin'—what we'd do after school, what frogs I was plannin' to catch, and whether or not we'd get homework on the first day.

Before we ate, Abby bowed her head for a quick prayer over her food. I did the same, whisperin' a quiet "Thank you, Lord" like Mama always taught me.

When I peeked up, I noticed not everyone prayed. Some kids just started eatin' right away. I wondered if they did it different at home, but I didn't think too much about it. Everyone was just doin' their own thing.

By the time the lunch lady rang the little bell, signalin' we had five minutes left, my belly was full, and I felt pretty good about the day so far. Even if I still missed Miss Parker, and even if Mr. Johnson wanted me to say running instead of runnin', school didn't seem so bad.

At least not with Abby sittin' next to me.

After lunch, Mr. Johnson led us down the hall to art class. The classroom smelled like paper, glue, and those thick crayons that always left little bits of wax behind when you pressed too hard. Art had always been one of my favorite classes—mostly 'cause you could make a mess and no one got onto you for it.

The art teacher, Mrs. Wilson, stood at the front of the room, wearing a long necklace with colorful beads. She had short, dark hair, and her smile was bright like she'd been waitin' all summer just to see us.

"Good afternoon, class," she said, "Welcome back. Today, we're starting off easy. I want you to draw a picture of something from your summer. It could be a place you visited, something you did, or just a special memory."

I sat up straighter, already thinkin' about what I wanted to draw. I liked art because no one could tell you your picture was wrong—it was yours.

Most kids got right to work, sketchin' beaches, houses, or stick-figure families. Abby was drawin' her dog, Max, chasin' a ball.

Me? I picked somethin' a little different.

I started drawin' Papa cleanin' that gator he shot. I drew him standin' by the porch with his knife, the big gator stretched out beside him. I even added myself, standin' nearby with my hands on my hips, proud as could be. And I made sure to draw Mama, peekin' out the door with a look on her face that said she wasn't too happy about it.

I was colorin' the gator's tail when Mrs. Wilson stopped by my desk. She leaned down to look at my paper.

"Oh, my," she said with a small laugh. "Is that an alligator?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said proudly. "My Papa shot it. We ate it for supper."

Her eyebrows lifted just a little, but she didn't look upset. "Well, that's certainly a unique summer memory. Very detailed work, Emily. I like that you included your whole family."

"Thank you, ma'am," I said, smilin' big.

As she walked to the next table, Abby leaned over and peeked at my picture.

"You really drew the gator?" she whispered, tryin' not to giggle.

"Course I did," I said, addin' a little more green to its scales. "It was the best part of my summer."

She grinned. "You're crazy."

I grinned right back. Bein' called crazy by Abby felt like a compliment.

The rest of art class flew by, and by the time we packed up, I felt like maybe third grade wasn't gonna be so bad after all.

After art, we had one last stop before the day was done—music class.

We followed Mr. Johnson down the hallway, and even before we got to the door, I could hear the soft notes of a piano playin' from inside. I liked music class well enough, even if singin' wasn't my best thing. Sometimes they let us play instruments, and I always hoped for the drums.

The music teacher, Mrs. Taylor, was at the front of the room when we walked in, her silver hair pulled back neatly and a warm smile on her face. Her fingers moved gently over the piano keys, like she'd been playin' forever.

"Good afternoon, class," she said, her voice smooth and proper. "Welcome to music. I hope you're all ready for a wonderful year."

We sat down on the floor, cross-legged, in a big semi-circle around her. The floor was that scratchy carpet kind, but I didn't mind. Bein' close to the front made me feel like I was really part of things.

Abby plopped down beside me, leanin' back on her hands. "Hope we get the tambourines," she whispered.

I grinned. I was hopin' for drums, but tambourines weren't bad either.

Mrs. Taylor started us off easy. She taught us a song—one of those folksy ones with hand motions and clappin'.

"This land is your land, this land is my land..."

Most of us knew it already, but singin' it together felt kinda nice. Some kids sang loud, like they were tryin' to drown everyone else out, and others were barely mumblin'. I did my best, even though my voice cracked a little when we got to the high parts.

After we finished the song, Mrs. Taylor sat on the edge of her piano bench and clapped her hands lightly.

"Very good," she said. "Now, music isn't just about the words—it's about rhythm. Rhythm is the heartbeat of music. It's what holds a song together."

She showed us a few simple clappin' patterns—clap, clap, pat your knees, clap—stuff that made you focus but was still kinda fun.

Then she passed out rhythm sticks—two wooden sticks, smooth and shiny. We tapped 'em together along with the beat she played on the piano.

Tap, tap, tap—pause. Tap, tap, tap—pause.

It felt good, like we were makin' music together, even if it was just simple taps. The sound of all the sticks clickin' at the same time filled the room. It reminded me of rain on the roof.

When the class was over, Mrs. Taylor smiled as she collected the sticks.

"You all did very well today," she said. "We're going to learn so much this year. Music is all around you—sometimes you just need to listen."

I liked that. It made me wanna pay attention more—to the birds at home, the sound of frogs near the creek, even the creak of Papa's truck when he pulled into the driveway.

We lined up to head back to Mr. Johnson's room, and as I walked, I tapped my fingers against my leg—keepin' the rhythm goin' all the way down the hall.

By the time the final bell rang, I was feelin' that good kind of tired—the kind where your feet ache a little, but your head's full of new things, and your belly's still happy from lunch.

Me and Abby grabbed our backpacks and made our way out to the bus loop. The afternoon sun was still high, bakin' the pavement, and the smell of hot asphalt mixed with the faint scent of pine trees from the woods nearby. Kids were chatterin' everywhere, some excited, some just ready to get home.

When our yellow bus pulled up with a loud hiss, we climbed aboard, headin' straight for our usual seat near the middle.

I plopped down next to the window, and Abby slid in beside me, tossin' her backpack onto her lap.

"Well, what'd you think?" she asked, leanin' her head back against the seat.

"Better than I thought it'd be," I admitted, lookin' out the window as the bus jolted forward. "I mean... I still wish we had Miss Parker, but Mr. Johnson seems alright. Even if he wants me to say reading instead of readin' all the time."

Abby snorted. "I heard him correct Jacob like three times. Bet he's gonna drive him crazy."

I laughed. "Jacob needs it."

We hit a bump, and the whole bus bounced, makin' a few kids squeal. The driver, Mr. Miller, just grunted up front like he was used to it.

"What was your favorite part?" Abby asked, twirlin' a loose strand of hair.

I thought for a second. "Probably recess. That soccer game was fun. We showed those boys we can play just as good as them."

Abby grinned. "Yeah, but you know Jacob's gonna come back tomorrow like it's the championship."

"Good," I said, sittin' up straighter. "I like a challenge."

We rode in silence for a minute, watchin' the trees whip by. As the bus rounded the curve toward our road, I spotted it—the train, crawlin' along the tracks in the distance, back toward town.

"You see it?" I said, pointin' out the window.

Abby leaned over to look. "Yeah. Looks like a long one today."

The cars clanged together as they rolled along, the sound faint from where we were, but still there if you listened.

"I wish it stopped here," I said, watchin' the train snake through the trees. "It'd be cool to get on one and see where it goes."

Abby shrugged. "I don't know. I kinda like it here."

I smiled, but part of me still wondered what it'd be like to hop on that train and just... go somewhere new.

As we got closer to our stop, the bus started to thin out. Some kids waved as they hopped off, runnin' down dirt driveways toward houses that looked a lot like mine—porches, gardens, and big yards with dogs barkin'.

When we got near my road, I nudged Abby. "You comin' over later?"

"Maybe," she said. "Depends if Mama makes me clean my room."

I laughed. "You'd rather wrestle a gator."

"Pretty much."

The bus slowed down, and I stood up, slingin' my backpack over my shoulder. Mr. Miller glanced at me in the mirror, noddin'.

"See you tomorrow," Abby called as I stepped down onto the dusty road.

I waved back. "See you."

The bus rumbled off, leavin' me standin' there with my backpack slung over one shoulder. I could hear the faint hum of the bus engine disappearin' down the dirt road, mixed with the sounds of nature all around me—the chirpin' of crickets and the distant croak of frogs floatin' from the direction of the swamp.

I stood still for a second, breathin' it all in. The warm air smelled earthy, with just a hint of that swampy dampness that always seemed to hang in the air. It felt like home.

The train was long gone, back toward town, pretty sure it was miles away now. Out here, it was just me, the trees, and the swamp breathin' in the distance.

I adjusted my backpack and started walkin' up the path toward the house, the familiar creak of the porch callin' me home.

My heart felt full—like today had been a good start.

And I was already thinkin' about what tomorrow might bring.

I kicked up little puffs of dust as I walked up the path toward the house, my backpack feelin' heavier than it did this mornin'. The sun was sittin' lower in the sky now, but the air was still thick and warm, the kinda heat that stuck to your skin.

As I got closer, I could see Mama out on the porch, rockin' slowly in her chair with a glass of sweet tea restin' on the little side table. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, and her eyes squinted against the sun as she saw me comin'.

"Hey there, baby," she called, smilin'. "How was your first day?"

I climbed the steps and dropped my backpack beside the door with a heavy thud.

"It was good," I said, ploppin' down on the top step. "I mean, it wasn't the same without Miss Parker, but I like Mr. Johnson okay. He's real big on makin' sure we say our words proper."

Mama chuckled. "Well, that ain't a bad thing."

I leaned back on my hands, feelin' the warmth of the wood under my palms.

"We had recess, and me and the girls played soccer against the boys. We beat 'em."

Mama raised her eyebrows. "You don't say?"

"Yep," I said proudly. "Jacob thought they had it in the bag, but we showed 'em."

"Well, look at you. Showin' those boys not to underestimate the girls." She winked. "What else?"

"We did multiplication, startin' with the zeros. And I knew all the answers, 'cause zero times anything is always zero."

Mama nodded. "Smart girl."

"Oh! And we had art. I drew Papa cleanin' that gator."

Mama's face twisted like she was rememberin' that day. "Lord have mercy, Emily..."

I laughed. "Mrs. Wilson liked it! Said it was 'detailed work.'"

Mama shook her head, smilin' anyway. "You're somethin' else."

We sat there a minute, listenin' to the sounds of the swamp driftin' from beyond the trees—the croakin' frogs, the buzzin' of bugs, and the occasional rustle of somethin' bigger movin' through the brush. The kind of sounds that let you know you were home.

"You hungry?" Mama asked after a bit.

"A little."

"Well, why don't you wash up and help me peel some taters? We'll get supper started before Papa gets back."

"Yes, ma'am."

Mama handed me a bowl and a peeler, along with a few lumpy taters that still had bits of dirt clingin' to 'em.

"Here you go, baby. Start peelin' those while I get the skillet ready," she said, turnin' toward the stove.

I sat down at the kitchen table, takin' a tater in my hand and draggin' the peeler across its skin. The rough brown peel curled off in strips, fallin' into the bowl like little ribbons. I liked helpin' in the kitchen—least when it wasn't somethin' too hard. Peelin' taters was easy. Just me, my hands, and that soft scratchin' sound as the peeler worked.

"So, what's this Mr. Johnson like, really?" Mama asked, her back to me as she poured oil into the skillet.

I shrugged. "He's nice, but he talks real proper. Keeps correctin' us when we say things like 'goin'' instead of 'going.' Wants us to sound smart."

Mama chuckled. "Nothin' wrong with soundin' smart. Though folks 'round here ain't ever gonna stop speakin' the way we are, no matter what he wants."

I laughed. "I reckon not."

Mama stirred the oil around the pan, and the warm smell started fillin' the kitchen—the kind that made my belly rumble a little louder.

I was halfway through my third tater when I heard the sound I always waited for—the low hum of Papa's truck rollin' up the dirt road. Tires crunchin' slow over gravel, then the familiar rattle as it came to a stop near the porch.

I perked up right away. "Papa's home!"

Mama wiped her hands on her apron. "Go on, let him know supper's almost ready."

I shot up, leavin' the half-peeled tater behind, and ran outside barefoot onto the porch. Papa was climbin' out of his truck, stretchin' his back like he'd been bent over wood all day. His work shirt was dusty, and his boots were caked with sawdust and dirt. His face was tired, but when he saw me, he smiled.

"Hey there, kiddo," he said, his voice warm. "How was school?"

"Good!" I said, grinnin'. "We beat the boys at soccer!"

He laughed, pullin' his toolbox from the back of the truck. "That right? Those boys better learn not to mess with you."

"Yes, sir!" I said proudly.

I followed him up the steps, my little wooden fox still sittin' right where I left it that mornin', guardin' the porch like a treasure.

"Mama says supper's almost ready," I added as we stepped inside.

"Music to my ears," Papa said, wipin' his forehead. He leaned over and kissed Mama on the cheek. "Smells good in here."

"Fried pork chops and taters," she said. "Figured you'd be hungry after today."

"You figured right," he said, settin' his toolbox by the door.

I went back to finish peelin' the last tater while Papa washed up at the sink. His rough hands were stained from work, but he scrubbed 'em best he could before dryin' off.

Soon, the smell of sizzlin' pork chops filled the kitchen, mixin' with the cracklin' of the taters Mama had tossed into the hot oil.

We all sat down together, holdin' hands while Papa gave thanks for the food, for our family, and for another good day.

"Amen," we all said, and I dug in, that first crunchy bite of fried tater tastin' like home.

I listened while Papa talked about the cabinet he'd been buildin' for Mrs. Jenkins and how her dog kept stealin' his tools when he wasn't lookin'. Mama laughed, shakin' her head, and I told Papa more about school—about Mr. Johnson, and how he wanted us to speak proper.

"Well," Papa said, takin' a sip of his sweet tea, "ain't nothin' wrong with speakin' proper when you need to. But you don't forget where you come from either."

I grinned. That sounded just right to me.

As the sun started settin' outside, I felt it again—that feelin' of bein' right where I belonged. School was fine, but home... home was my favorite place to be.

After supper, my belly was full, and my eyes felt a little heavy, but the day wasn't over just yet. As Mama started cleanin' up the dishes, Papa stretched back in his chair, lettin' out a satisfied sigh.

"That was some good eatin'," he said, patting his stomach.

"Yes, sir," I agreed, my mouth still tastin' a bit like fried pork chops and taters.

I saw Papa glance toward the porch, and I knew what that meant. Every now and then, when the air cooled off a little, and the day was slowin' down, he liked to sit out there—just listenin' to the sounds of the swamp and the breeze through the trees.

"You comin', kiddo?" he asked.

"You bet!" I said, already pushin' back from the table.

We stepped out onto the porch, the old boards creakin' under our feet. The sun had dropped low, leavin' the sky painted in shades of pink and purple. The air was thick with the sound of frogs croakin' and crickets chirpin'. In the distance, I could even hear the faint call of a barred owl, echoing through the trees like it was askin', "Who cooks for you?"

I plopped down on the top step, lettin' my bare feet dangle, while Papa eased into his rocker. He leaned back with a soft creak, his eyes driftin' toward the tree line.

We didn't talk much at first. We didn't have to. Bein' out here, surrounded by the sounds of home, felt good all on its own.

After a minute, I broke the quiet. "Papa... you ever wish you could go somewhere far away? Like... on one of those trains?"

He glanced over at me, his face thoughtful. "Hmm... maybe once or twice, when I was younger. Thought about seein' other places. But then, I always figured... everything I need's right here."

I nodded slowly, lettin' that sink in.

"I guess I just wonder sometimes what it'd be like," I said. "Like... seein' big cities, or mountains, or maybe even the ocean."

Papa smiled. "Ain't nothin' wrong with wonderin'. And if you ever get the itch to go see all that when you're older, you should. But just remember... no matter where you go, this place'll always be home."

I looked out toward the woods, the shadows stretchin' longer now, almost touchin' the porch.

"I like home," I said quietly.

Papa nodded. "Me too."

The air was startin' to cool, but I stayed put, listenin' to the chorus of the swamp animals, lettin' their songs fill the quiet spaces between me and Papa.

This—this was the part of the day I loved most.

The air shifted—just a little at first. The breeze carried a coolness it didn't have before, and I noticed the sky had darkened, gray clouds creepin' in where the pink and purple had been.

A soft plop hit the porch railing.

Then another.

Within seconds, the gentle patter of rain filled the air, tap-tap-tappin' against the roof, splashin' onto the dirt yard below. The smell of wet earth rose up, mixin' with the faint scent of pine and swamp water. It was the kind of rain that made you wanna stay put and just listen.

I tucked my legs up under me on the step, watchin' the raindrops dance across the ground.

Papa leaned back in his rocker, his eyes half-closed, a content smile on his face.

"There it is," he murmured, his voice low and easy. "A good summer rain."

I liked the sound of that—summer rain. It felt softer than the heavy storms we sometimes got. This was the kind you could sit with.

A few minutes later, Mama pushed open the screen door, holdin' a towel in her hand, like she'd thought maybe we were gettin' drenched. But when she saw we were just sittin' and enjoyin' it, she paused.

"You two just gonna sit out here in the rain?" she asked, though there was a gentle laugh in her voice.

"Yes, ma'am," I said, grinnin'.

She stood there for a second, then sighed like she was givin' in. "Well... guess I'll join you."

She sat down beside me on the step, tuckin' the towel into her lap, just in case. I leaned into her a little, feelin' the warmth of her arm next to mine.

We didn't say much. We didn't need to.

We just watched the rain fall—tiny rivers form in the dirt, drops dancin' on the leaves, the trees swayin' ever so slightly in the gentle wind. The sounds of the swamp blended right into it—frogs still croakin', insects hummin', nature not mindin' the rain one bit.

We sat there a while, just listenin' to the rain, breathin' in that good, clean smell it left behind. The kind that made everything feel a little fresher, like the earth was takin' a big drink after a long, hot day.

Then, just when I thought it couldn't get any better, Mama had to ruin it.

"Emily," she said, her voice gentle but with that Mama tone that let you know somethin' was comin'. "You got any homework today?"

I groaned, slouchin' down like the rain had suddenly turned to mud and swallowed me whole.

"Mama," I whined, "why'd you have to bring that up? We were havin' such a nice time!"

Papa chuckled from his rocker, rockin' slow. "She got you there, Beverly."

Mama gave him a playful side-eye but stayed focused on me. "That's all well and good, but you ain't gonna be fallin' behind on your first day."

I huffed, crossin' my arms. "I got a math sheet—zeros multiplication. I already know it, though. It's easy."

"Easy or not, it still needs doin'," she said, nudgin' me with her elbow.

I sighed, knowin' she was right, even if I didn't like hearin' it.

Papa grinned, his eyes twinklin' like he remembered this feelin' all too well. "Get it done now, kiddo. Then you can enjoy the rest of the evenin' without it hangin' over your head."

I grumbled under my breath but pushed myself up off the step. The rain was still fallin', light and steady, but the cozy feel of sittin' there was replaced by the dread of math problems.

"I'll be quick," I muttered.

Mama patted my back as I stood up. "That's my girl."

I went inside, grabbin' my backpack and diggin' out the crinkled worksheet. I sat at the kitchen table, pencil in hand, workin' through each problem. And yeah... I was right. It was easy.

Zero times anything was always zero.

But still—I'd rather be listenin' to rain with Mama and Papa on the porch.

I scratched the last answer onto my worksheet, lettin' out a long breath like I'd just run ten miles. Even though the math was easy, I was glad to have it done. I stuffed the paper back into my folder and tossed it into my backpack, pushin' it to the side like I didn't wanna think about it again until tomorrow.

The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, barely more than a mist, and I could still hear Mama and Papa talkin' low out on the porch. I stepped outside, the air smellin' fresh and cool after the rain. The ground was damp, little puddles fillin' the dips in the dirt, and the leaves on the trees dripped softly onto the ground.

I plopped down right back on the step where I'd been before.

"All done," I said proudly.

Papa gave a little nod. "Told you you'd feel better gettin' it out of the way."

"I guess," I said, grinnin'.

A few minutes later, Mama pushed open the screen door, carryin' a tray with three glasses of lemonade and somethin' covered with a dish towel. She set it down on the little table beside Papa's chair.

I noticed the lemonade right away—it wasn't just the usual kind. It was the special one. Pale yellow, with little green specks floatin' in it.

Tarragon Lemonade.

Mama's favorite, and truth be told, I liked it a lot too. It was sweet, but that tarragon gave it somethin' extra—kinda like a little whisper of somethin' fancy. Not somethin' we had all the time, so I knew tonight was special.

She handed me a glass, beads of condensation already slippin' down the sides. I took a sip—the cool lemon tang mixed with that light, herby taste. It was perfect after the warm day.

Then, Mama pulled the towel off the dish, revealin' a pan of peach cobbler, still warm. The sweet smell hit me right away—peaches, sugar, and that golden crust that always made my mouth water.

I looked up at her, wide-eyed. "Cobbler, Mama? On a school night?"

She laughed. "I figured we deserved a little treat. First day of school and all."

Papa rubbed his hands together. "Now you're talkin'."

We each grabbed a bowl, and Mama spooned out the cobbler, steamin' hot, the syrupy peaches bubblin' under the crust. I didn't even care that it burned my tongue a little—I was too busy tastin' all that sweet, gooey goodness.

We sat there together—Mama, Papa, and me—sippin' our lemonade, eatin' cobbler, listenin' to the rain as it finally drifted away, leavin' the sounds of the swamp behind.

The frogs had started back up, singin' louder than ever, and a few lightning bugs blinked out near the trees.

I leaned back, feelin' full and happy.

This was home.

And there was nowhere else I'd rather be.

After helpin' Mama bring in the dishes and huggin' Papa goodnight, I made my way to my room. The window was cracked just a little, lettin' in the cool night air and the sounds of the swamp driftin' through. The frogs were already singin', their deep croaks mixin' with the occasional chirp of crickets. It was like a song—one I'd heard every night for as long as I could remember.

I changed into my nightshirt and knelt down beside my bed, like I always did.

I folded my hands together and closed my eyes. "Dear Lord, thank You for today. Thank You for Mama and Papa. Thank You for school and for my friends. And thank You for givin' us this home. Please watch over us while we sleep. Amen."

When I finished, I climbed into bed, pullin' the covers up tight under my chin. My little wooden fox sat on the nightstand, watchin' over me, its smooth tail catchin' the soft glow from the moonlight slippin' in through the window.

I laid still, listenin'—just listenin'.

The frogs kept on croakin', slow and steady, like they were singin' me to sleep. Their sounds mixed with the gentle rustlin' of leaves and the occasional plop of somethin' in the water out near the swamp.

It was a sound I knew better than any song.

And before I knew it, my eyes got heavy, and I drifted off—wrapped up in the music of home.

The next morning, school started off like any other. Mr. Johnson stood at the door, greeting each of us with his usual "Good morning, class," his voice steady and clear, not a single dropped "g" in sight. He was the kind of teacher who liked things done properly. It used to catch me off guard at first—being told to mind my manners when I mumbled a quick 'mornin' without thinking—but I learned quick. This time, I made sure to look him in the eye and say it just right. "Good morning, Mr. Johnson," I said, proud of myself for remembering.

He gave me a small nod of approval, and I felt like I'd already won something, even though the day had just begun.

We started with math, going over our times tables. I liked numbers well enough when they behaved, but sometimes they didn't, and that could get frustrating. Reading was next. We took turns reading out loud from a story about a little dog that got lost but found his way home. I liked that story; it made me think about what it would feel like to get lost out in the woods, and how I'd find my way back home to Mama and Papa.

But then came recess. That was when Jacob, a boy in our class who was always full of energy and a little too confident for his own good, called out a challenge.

"Boys versus girls! Soccer! You ready, or are y'all scared?" he hollered, his voice carrying across the playground.

Abby and I shared a look. We weren't scared. Not one bit. We'd beaten them last time, and we planned to do it again.

"You're on," Abby called back, hands on her hips.

We divided up, girls on one side, boys on the other. The playground was mostly dirt, with patches of grass trying their best to grow, but it made for a good soccer field in our eyes. We didn't have proper goals—just two sticks on each end to mark the spot—but that was enough. The rules were simple: first to five wins. No goalies, no referees, and no whining. We played hard and fast, and everyone knew to watch their shins; getting kicked was part of the deal.

The game started with Jacob tapping the ball forward for the boys, his quick feet kicking up little clouds of dust. Abby was on him like a shadow, her eyes locked on the ball. She darted in and poked it loose with her toe, sending it my way. I trapped it under my foot, feeling the worn rubber of the ball press into the dirt. The boys closed in, but I twisted, pushing the ball to the side, and dashed past them. My heart pounded as I spotted Abby sprinting up the sideline.

I passed it ahead, the ball rolling over a dry patch of grass. Abby met it with a perfect touch, keeping it close as she weaved between two boys. Jacob tried to block her, arms out for balance, but she faked right and went left, leaving him spinning in place. We both laughed as she surged forward.

"I'm open!" I called, raising my hand.

Abby glanced up and flicked the ball back toward me with the side of her foot. I caught it and dribbled closer to the sticks marking the goal. Just as I prepared to shoot, Brian lunged in front of me. I kicked the ball hard, but it smacked his leg and bounced away.

Scrambling, Jacob got to it first, turning and racing toward our end of the field. Abby and I sprinted after him, our breaths coming in short bursts. He lined up a shot, but I slid in, my leg sweeping through the dust, and knocked the ball away just in time.

Abby was already moving. I scrambled to my feet and booted the ball downfield. She caught up to it with those quick strides of hers. The boys were closing in, but Abby didn't hesitate. She took a sharp kick, and the ball zipped between the two sticks.

"Goal!" she shouted, pumping her fist in the air.

We cheered, jumping up and down, our laughter mixing with the calls and groans from the boys. "Lucky shot!" Jacob yelled, but we knew better.

The game pressed on. Sweat trickled down our faces, and our shoes were covered in dust. Each team fought hard. The boys tied it up with a strong kick from Brian that skimmed right past our goal line. We answered quickly, Abby slipping through their defenses like a rabbit, scoring another one with a clever tap past Jacob's foot.

By the time it was four to four, everyone was breathless, but no one was giving up. This was how it always was—a battle of pride, speed, and grit. Jacob tried another breakaway, but this time, Abby cut him off. She stole the ball with a swift kick and charged ahead. I sprinted alongside her.

"Go for it!" I urged.

She angled toward the goal, her eyes narrowing in focus. Jacob lunged at her, but she side-stepped and struck the ball with her right foot. It sailed cleanly between the sticks.

"Five!" I yelled, arms raised in triumph.

We collapsed onto the grass, sweaty and out of breath, grinning up at the sky. The boys grumbled, but there were smiles mixed in with their frustration. We knew we'd play again tomorrow, and the rivalry would continue. That was the best part—the game never really ended. It was always waiting, right there on the dusty playground, ready for us to pick up where we left off.

"Told you we'd win," she said.

"Yup," I laughed. "They never learn."

When the bell rang, we brushed the dust off our knees and joined the crowd heading toward the cafeteria, still breathless from the game. Jacob shot me a look, half a scowl, half a grin. He was already plotting their comeback tomorrow—I could see it in his eyes. I just smirked back. Let him try.

Inside the cafeteria, the noise hit us all at once—chatter, laughter, trays clattering, and the hum of kids moving through the line. The air smelled like something fried, mixed with that warm bread smell that always made my stomach growl. We lined up, sliding our trays along the counter.

Today's lunch was chicken nuggets, mashed potatoes with gravy, green beans, and a soft roll. Not bad. I grabbed a chocolate milk from the cooler at the end, and Abby did the same.

Most of the seats were taken, by the time we got into the lunchroom. We glanced around, looking for a spot. Some kids were already settled in little groups—friends who sat together every day. I didn't mind sitting different places; it made things interesting.

"Over there?" Abby nodded toward an open spot near the middle of the room.

"Looks good," I said.

We slid into our seats across from a couple of girls from another class, who were busy whispering about something that had happened on the bus that morning. I didn't catch the whole story, but it sounded like someone's little brother threw up. Gross.

I focused on my nuggets, dunking one into my mashed potatoes. That was the best way to eat them—the gravy made everything better. Abby did the same. We grinned at each other like we had some kind of secret.

Jacob and his crew ended up at a table a few rows over. I could hear him carrying on, talking big like always. "We let 'em win today," he was saying loud enough for everyone to hear. "Tomorrow's gonna be different."

I snorted, shaking my head. "He's so full of it."

Abby laughed. "Yeah, but it's kinda fun watching him lose."

We ate and talked, our conversation hopping from the game to school, then to the fall festival that was coming up soon. There'd be hayrides, games, and Papa said there was gonna be a big pumpkin contest this year.

"You think your papa'll enter?" Abby asked.

"Maybe," I said, feeling a little proud. "He's real good with his tools. He could probably carve the best one there."

Lunch went by quick, like it always did. After we finished, we carried our trays over to the window where you dumped the leftovers and stacked everything up.

Once we got back to class, Mr. Johnson stood up in front and clapped his hands together. "Alright, everyone, listen up. We're starting something new today. You're going to be working on a research project. It's about the wildlife right here in Georgia."

The room got quieter. Projects meant work, but they also usually meant partnerin' up—and that was the fun part.

"We live in a special place," Mr. Johnson went on. "Georgia is home to some of the most interesting animals in the South. From the swamps to the forests, from the rivers to the fields—you'll find creatures big and small. Your job is to pick one animal that lives in Georgia, and you and a partner are going to learn all about it. Where it lives, what it eats, how it survives. You'll make a poster and tell the class what you've found."

I felt a nudge from my side. Abby was already smilin', her eyes wide with excitement. We didn't even have to say it. We were partners.

Mr. Johnson clapped his hands once more. "Find your partner and start discussing your ideas."

Me and Abby scooted our desks together so quick, our chairs made that squeaky sound on the tile floor.

"What are we pickin'?" Abby asked, already lookin' around like she had a few ideas.

I didn't even need to think. It came to me right away. I leaned in and whispered, "Gators."

Her eyes got big. "Alligators?"

"Yeah," I nodded. "Papa told me all about 'em. I've seen a couple near the swamp before... from far away. And remember that one he shot the other week? We had it for dinner."

She wrinkled her nose. "I remember. I still don't know how y'all eat those things."

I laughed. "It was good!"

She giggled, then leaned back. "Okay, gators it is. That's way cooler than pickin' a bird or somethin'."

We started writin' down ideas on a piece of notebook paper—stuff like "where they live (swamps)," "what they eat," and "how big they get." I already knew a little, thanks to Papa, but Abby suggested we check out a book from the library tomorrow, just to make sure we got all the facts right.

Mr. Johnson walked around, peekin' over desks.

"What animal did you two choose?" he asked, smilin' down at us.

"Alligators," I said proudly.

He raised an eyebrow. "That's a fine choice. They're fascinating creatures. Just make sure you do your research. And remember—when you present to the class, we want to speak clearly. No 'goin',' no 'eatin'.' We say going and eating."

I sighed, but Abby elbowed me, tryin' not to laugh.

"Yes, sir," I said.

The afternoon sun streamed in through the classroom windows, makin' little square patches of light on the floor. Our pencils scratched against our papers as we brainstormed more ideas for our poster. I wanted to draw a big gator with its mouth wide open, showin' all its teeth. Abby liked the idea of addin' little facts around it—like how fast they could swim, or how they sneak up on their food.

"Did you know they can grow to be like fourteen feet long?" I whispered, my voice full of the kind of awe only a kid could have.

"No way!" Abby said, eyes wide.

"Yeah, Papa said some folks down near the swamp seen ones even bigger."

She shook her head, smilin'. "I don't think I wanna see one that close."

We both laughed, but in the back of my mind, I thought about the time Papa took me fishin' and we saw one glide through the water, just its eyes peekin' out above the surface. It had made my heart race, but it was the kind of fear that made you feel alive.

By the time the bell rang, I felt excited. This wasn't just homework—it was somethin' I cared about. Somethin' that reminded me of home.

And I knew Papa would be proud.

As we grabbed our backpacks and walked toward the door, Abby grinned. "Tomorrow, we hit the library. We're gonna make the best gator poster ever."

"Yep," I said, feelin' that same excitement buzzin' in my chest. "We sure will."

The school bus bumped down the dusty road, and I felt my eyelids gettin' heavy as the trees blurred past the window. It was that kinda tired that comes from runnin' hard at recess, thinkin' real hard in class, and eatin' just a little too much at lunch.

When the bus finally stopped near our driveway, I hopped off, wavin' to Abby as the doors hissed shut behind me. The air was warm, heavy with that familiar swampy smell, but I didn't mind it. It smelled like home.

I could already hear the soft cluckin' of the chickens and the low hum of cicadas as I made my way up toward the house. Mama's truck was parked by the porch, and I saw her hangin' clothes on the line, her back turned as the breeze tugged at the damp shirts.

"Hey, Mama!" I called.

She turned and smiled, wipin' her hands on her apron. "Hey there, baby. How was school?"

"It was good! We got a big project about wildlife. Me and Abby picked alligators!" I said, my chest puffin' a little with pride.

"Alligators, huh? Figures," she said with a laugh. "Now, you know the drill—put your bag inside and come help me finish up out here. These clothes ain't gonna hang themselves."

"Yes, ma'am."

I dropped my backpack and shoes by the door and came back out, bare feet pressin' into the warm dirt. I grabbed a damp towel from the basket and stretched up to pin it to the line, lettin' it flap in the breeze.

Once we finished, Mama handed me a small bucket of chicken feed.

"Go on and feed them hens," she said. "And don't let Ruby bully you. She's been actin' extra feisty today."

I laughed. Ruby was always a little bossy, struttin' around like she was the queen of the coop. I scattered the feed across the ground, and the hens came rushin' over, cluckin' and peckin' like they hadn't eaten in days. Ruby puffed up and gave me a side-eye, but I was ready for her.

"Don't start with me," I warned, pointin' a finger. "You got plenty right there."

She clucked but backed off, diggin' into the grain with the others.

After the chickens were fed, Mama called me over to the garden. The weeds were already creepin' up between the rows of tomatoes and squash.

"Start pullin' those weeds, Em," she said, kneelin' down beside me.

I squatted down, fingers diggin' into the warm dirt. It wasn't my favorite chore, but I liked workin' alongside Mama. We didn't always talk much when we gardened, but sometimes she'd tell me stories about when she was a little girl—about how she and Uncle Ray used to pick blackberries down by the creek and come home with purple-stained fingers.

"Papa comin' home on time today?" I asked after a while, wipin' the sweat off my forehead.

"I reckon so," Mama said, checkin' the tomatoes. "He was workin' on that cabinet for Mrs. Jenkins. Should be done today."

I smiled. I liked when Papa got home early. It meant we'd have more time to sit on the porch, maybe listen to the frogs, or he'd show me how to carve somethin' new.

By the time we finished the garden, my knees were stained with dirt, and my fingers had little specks of soil stuck under the nails. I wiped my hands on my overalls, standin' up and stretchin'.

"That's good work, baby," Mama said, standin' too. "Let's get washed up and start on supper. Your papa'll be hungry."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, feelin' that good kind of tired—the kind that comes from a day full of doin' things that mattered.

As we walked back toward the house, I glanced out toward the trees beyond our yard. I knew there were gators out there, hidin' somewhere in the swampy water. And soon, I'd know even more about 'em, thanks to our project.

But for now, I was just happy to be home.

The kitchen smelled wonderful—like tomatoes, onions, and spices all blended together into somethin' warm and good. Mama and I had been workin' on stuffed tomatoes for supper—Georgian-style, as Mama called 'em. It was one of those recipes that made you feel like you were cookin' somethin' fancy, but really, it was just good ol' Southern comfort food.

We had sliced the tops off the tomatoes, scooped out the insides, and mixed 'em with rice, ground beef, onions, and herbs. Mama even let me sprinkle a little cheese on top before we slid the pan into the oven.

"There," she said, wipin' her hands on her apron. "That'll be ready in a bit."

Just as she said it, we heard the familiar sound of Papa's truck rollin' up the drive. The tires crunched over the dirt, and the engine hummed low before cuttin' off.

I perked up right away. "Papa's home!"

I darted to the door, throwin' it open and rushin' onto the porch before he'd even stepped out of the truck.

"Papa! We're makin' stuffed tomatoes!" I called, bouncin' on my toes.

He climbed out, stretchin' his back with a little groan. "Well now, that sounds mighty fine after the day I've had."

He shut the truck door and grabbed his toolbox, walkin' up toward the house. His shirt was dusty, and there was a little sawdust stickin' to his pants, but he had that same easy smile on his face—the one he always had when he was glad to be home.

"How was work?" I asked, followin' him like a shadow as he stepped up onto the porch.

"Busy," he said, settin' his toolbox down by the door. "Finished up that cabinet for Mrs. Jenkins. She seemed real happy with it."

Mama stepped out onto the porch, wipin' her hands on a dishtowel. "Well, you're just in time. Supper's nearly ready."

Papa leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "My favorite kind of news."

We all went inside, and I peeked into the oven, seein' the tomatoes sizzlin', the cheese meltin' on top just right. My stomach grumbled loud enough for Papa to hear.

He chuckled. "Sounds like someone's ready to eat."

"Yes, sir!" I grinned.

While Mama finished settin' the table, Papa washed up, and I helped get the drinks ready—sweet tea for them, and lemonade for me.

When the tomatoes came out, they were hot and bubbly, the tops crisped just a little. Mama scooped one onto each plate, and we all sat down together.

Before we picked up our forks, Papa bowed his head, and we joined hands.

"Lord, we thank You for this food, for the work that made it, and for this home You've given us. Bless this family and keep us safe. Amen."

"Amen," Mama and I echoed.

I cut into my tomato, the filling steamin' as I took a bite. It was rich and savory, the kind of food that made you slow down and enjoy every bit.

"Mmm... Mama, this is real good," I said through a mouthful.

Papa nodded, takin' a big bite. "Best thing I've tasted all day."

We ate, talkin' about our day—Papa's work, Mama's garden, and my project about gators.

"I'll have to tell you some more gator stories when you're workin' on that poster," Papa said, winkin' at me.

I grinned, knowin' this project was gonna be even more fun than I thought.

After supper, Mama shooed me and Papa out of the kitchen while she cleaned up. I didn't mind—I knew what was comin'.

Papa grabbed his old whittlin' knife and a fresh block of wood, and I followed him out onto the porch like his little shadow. The sky was turnin' purple with the last bit of daylight, and the air was thick with that good Georgia summer smell—wet dirt, pine trees, and a hint of somethin' sweet ridin' the breeze.

We settled into our usual spots—Papa in his rocker, me cross-legged on the porch floor at his feet. The boards were still a little warm from the sun, and the sound of the swamp was startin' up—the croaks of frogs, the chirp of crickets, and the occasional call of a bird somewhere deep in the trees.

"You ready to learn somethin' new tonight?" Papa asked, flippin' open his knife with a soft click.

"Yes, sir," I said, my eyes already fixed on the wood in his hands.

He turned the block over a couple times, studyin' it like he could already see what was inside.

"We're gonna carve you a gator," he said with a grin.

My heart jumped a little. "Really? Like... with teeth and a tail and everything?"

He nodded, his fingers runnin' along the wood. "A proper gator. You can take it to school when you give that presentation—show 'em you know more than just what's in a book."

I sat up straighter. This was serious. I knew Papa's whittlin' was somethin' special. He didn't just make little toys—he made pieces that felt like they belonged in our home. His hands knew what they were doin', and now he was gonna teach me.

He handed me a smaller piece of wood, somethin' easier to work with, and showed me how to hold it steady in one hand while keepin' the knife in the other. His voice was low, patient, like he had all the time in the world.

"You don't rush," he said, easin' the knife along the edge. "Whittlin's about seein' what's inside and lettin' it come out. You start with the shape—you don't worry 'bout the little details yet. That comes later."

I watched as his knife peeled thin curls of wood away, revealin' the rough outline of a long body—a gator's body. The snout stretched out, and the tail curved just a little at the end.

I tried to follow along, my hands not quite as sure as his. My gator was lookin' more like a lumpy stick, but Papa didn't say nothin' bad. He just smiled and guided my hand.

"See, right here—you wanna round that belly out a little more. Gators ain't straight like a log. They curve, like they're always ready to move."

I nodded, tongue stickin' out a little as I worked.

The sun slipped lower, and the porch got dim, but we kept on. Papa's gator was takin' shape fast—rough scales along its back, little legs tucked close to its body, and a mouth that looked like it could snap shut at any second.

Mine... well, it still needed some work. But Papa didn't mind. Every so often, he'd reach over and shave a little here, smooth a spot there, showin' me how to see what I was missin'.

"Details come last," he reminded me. "Once you got the shape, that's when you do the eyes, the teeth... the things that make it come to life."

By the time Mama stepped out onto the porch, wipin' her hands on her towel, the stars were startin' to peek through the trees.

"You two still at it?" she asked, smilin'.

"Yes, ma'am," I said, holdin' up my little wooden gator. It was a bit rough, kinda crooked, but I was proud of it.

Papa held up his gator beside mine—his was perfect, with each tooth and scale carved jus

t right. But he looked at mine like it was somethin' special, too.

"Not bad for a first try," he said, winkin' at me.

I beamed.

We sat there a little longer, listenin' to the swamp, holdin' our gators like they were treasures.

Because they were.

As I worked my knife along the little block of wood, tryin' to shape my gator's tail, I started talkin' without even thinkin'.

"Today at recess, we played soccer—boys against girls. We crushed 'em," I said, grinnin' a little.

Papa chuckled, shavin' down a fine strip of wood from his gator's back. "That so? You show 'em how it's done?"

"Yes, sir," I said proudly. "Me and Abby—we were runnin' circles around 'em. Jacob kept actin' like they let us win, but he knows better."

Mama laughed softly from her seat, listenin' as she leaned back in her chair. "Sounds like you had 'em runnin' scared."

I nodded, but then my knife slipped a little, and I had to slow down, focusin' on what I was doin'. The next part came out quieter, like I wasn't sure if I wanted to say it.

"I was thinkin'... if I was a boy, we'd all be on the same team. We'd be real good together."

I didn't look up right away, but I could feel Papa glancin' over at me. His voice stayed steady, calm like it always was when we talked about this stuff.

"You think bein' a boy would've made a difference?" he asked, smoothin' out the gator's snout with his knife.

I shrugged, shavin' off a little more wood from the side of my gator's belly. "Maybe. I don't know. Sometimes... I just feel like I fit better that way. When I'm runnin' with the boys, playin' hard... it's like it makes sense. But then... I don't wanna stop bein' me, neither."

The porch got real quiet, except for the sounds of the swamp—frogs croakin', crickets chirpin', and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze.

Mama was the first to speak, her voice soft but sure. "Well, baby... you don't gotta pick. You can be you—play ball, climb trees, whittle gators—and still come in here and help me bake pies. You don't have to be just one thing."

I looked up then, and Papa nodded, his eyes kind and steady.

"She's right," he said. "You're already part of the best team there is—our family. And we love you just the way you are."

My chest felt a little tight, but in a good way. Like I belonged.

I smiled, a small one at first, but then it grew bigger. "Thanks, y'all."

We went back to whittlin', the quiet comfortable now, like we'd all said what needed sayin'. I looked at my little gator again—still a little rough, but I liked it. It was mine.

After a while, the porch got real quiet again—just the soft scrape of our knives on wood and the frogs croakin' out by the swamp. Mama stood up, stretchin' a little with a yawn.

"Well, I'm headin' inside to check on that bread," she said, wipin' her hands on her apron. "Don't stay out here too long—you know them skeeters'll eat you alive."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, still focused on my little wooden gator's tail.

Papa nodded to her, then watched as she went inside, the screen door creakin' and slappin' shut behind her. The porch light cast a warm glow, but beyond it, everything was dark—just shadows and the sounds of the night.

That's when he spoke, his voice low and gentle, like he was makin' sure it was just for me.

"Emily," he said, not lookin' right at me, but still close enough that I knew it mattered. "Do you... do you want to be a boy?"

The question hung there in the warm night air, like the sound of the frogs had faded for a second.

I froze, my knife still pressed against the wood. I hadn't expected him to ask it—not like that. Not so plain.

I didn't know what to say at first, so I just stared down at my little gator. Its rough shape was startin' to look more like what I wanted it to be—still not perfect, but gettin' there.

I took a breath. "I... I don't know."

Papa didn't say nothin'. He just let me sit with it, like he was givin' me space to find the words.

"I feel like... sometimes I do," I whispered, pickin' at the edge of the wood. "When I'm runnin' around with the boys, climbin' trees, playin' soccer... it just feels right. Like I fit in better. Like I'm... one of 'em."

I paused, and my voice got even quieter. "But then other times... I like bein' me. I like sittin' with Mama and bakin' cookies, or wearin' my dress to church and feelin'... pretty. I don't wanna give that up, neither."

I glanced up at Papa, nervous about what I'd see in his face. But there wasn't nothin' bad there—just the same steady look he always had when he was listenin' to me like I was tellin' him somethin' important.

He nodded slow. "That's okay, baby. You don't gotta pick one or the other. You can just be you. You know that, right?"

I felt my chest ease up a little, like I'd been holdin' my breath without realizin' it. "Yes, sir."

He leaned back in his chair, tappin' his knife lightly on his knee. "I don't understand it all, Emily. But I know I love you, and I'll always be proud of you—whether you're climbin' trees or bakin' pies. Or both."

I smiled, feelin' that warm, safe feelin' I always got when Papa said stuff like that.

"Thanks, Papa."

He gave me a little wink. "Now, you better get that gator lookin' right—can't have you takin' a lopsided one to school."

I laughed, the knot in my chest finally loosening all the way. We went back to our whittlin', the soft scrape of knives and the call of the frogs fillin' the night again.

And I knew, right then, that whatever I figured out about myself—Papa was gonna be right there, every step of the way.

After a little while, the quiet settled back in—just the soft scrape of our knives and the hum of the swamp. But my mind wasn't still.

I chewed on my lip, my fingers workin' at the little gator's tail. I kept thinkin' about what Papa had asked me—about wantin' to be a boy. And about all the things I didn't understand, but felt like I should.

I glanced over at him, his face calm as he worked the detail into his gator's eyes. He wouldn't laugh at me. I knew that. He never had before.

So, I took a breath and asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.

"Papa... what's it like... havin' a... a penis?"

I felt my face heat up as soon as I said it. My heart thumped like I'd done somethin' wrong.

Papa's hand paused for just a second, then he let out a quiet breath through his nose—kinda like a laugh, but not a mean one. More like he wasn't surprised.

"Well... that's a question," he said, his voice low and steady, same as always.

I looked down at my gator, embarrassed. "Sorry."

He shook his head. "Ain't nothin' to be sorry for. You're curious. That's normal."

I peeked up at him. He was still workin', carvin' smooth like it was the easiest thing in the world.

"I don't rightly know how to explain it," he said after a moment. "It's just... part of me, same as your body's part of you. Don't think about it much—it's just there."

I nodded, even though it didn't exactly clear things up.

"But... when you were a kid... did you ever think about what it'd be like not to have one?"

He thought on that, his knife slowin' a bit.

"Not really," he said, honest as ever. "I guess... I always just felt like me. Didn't wonder much about bein' different. But I reckon that's 'cause nobody ever made me feel like I could be anythin' else."

I let his words settle. They made sense, but they also made me feel a little different—like maybe I was askin' questions other kids didn't. But Papa didn't make me feel weird about it. He made me feel like it was okay.

"You think I'm weird for askin' all this?" I mumbled.

He set his knife down for a second and looked at me real serious—kind, but firm.

"Emily, you listen to me. You ain't weird. You're you. And you're figurin' things out—same as every other kid, just in your own way. That's alright. There ain't nothin' wrong with askin' questions."

I nodded, feelin' that warm, safe feelin' again. Like no matter what was goin' on in my head, Papa was right there beside me.

I didn't have all the answers. I didn't know if I'd ever feel like a boy for sure—or if I'd always just be somewhere in between.

But sittin' there on the porch, with Papa carvin' a gator beside me, it felt like maybe that was okay.

Maybe I didn't need all the answers right now.

Maybe just bein' me was enough.

After a while, the night air started to cool, and the frogs' croakin' seemed louder as the sky got darker. Mama peeked out the door once to remind us it was gettin' late.

"It's about time to get washed up, Emily," she said, her voice soft.

"Yes, ma'am," I answered, but I stayed a few more minutes, runnin' my fingers over my little wooden gator. It wasn't perfect—not like Papa's. Mine was kinda bumpy, the tail was a little too thin, and the teeth were more like little dents than sharp points. But it was mine. And I was proud of it.

"I like it," I said, holdin' it up to Papa in the dim light.

He grinned. "So do I. That's a mighty fine gator, Emily."

That made me feel good. Even if it looked a little funny, it was somethin' I made with my own hands.

I gave Papa a hug before headin' inside. I washed up, brushed my teeth, and changed into my pajamas—soft shorts and an old t-shirt that felt just right.

When I crawled into bed, I placed my little wooden gator on my bedside table, right next to the bird Papa had carved for me last year. Both of 'em sittin' there like little treasures.

I knelt down beside my bed, like I did every night, foldin' my hands together.

"Dear Lord," I whispered, "Thank You for this day, and for Mama and Papa. Thank You for lettin' me run and play and make my gator. And... thank You for lettin' me be me."

I paused, my chest feelin' tight like it always did when I got to this part.

"Sometimes I feel like I wanna be a boy. And sometimes I like bein' a girl. I don't know why it's like that, but I just... I just wanna be okay. I hope You think I'm okay."

I felt tears prickle a little in my eyes, but I wiped 'em back.

"Please help me figure it out... and please don't let Mama or Papa ever stop lovin' me, no matter what."

I sat there in the quiet, listenin' to the frogs outside, their voices driftin' through the window. That sound always made me feel calm—like the swamp was singin' me to sleep.

I crawled under the covers, huggin' my pillow tight. As my eyes got heavy, I glanced once more at my little wooden gator, sittin' proud by the bird.

I smiled.

Maybe I didn't know who I'd be tomorrow... but for tonight, I was home. And that was enough.

The next morning started like any other—me runnin' a little late, stuffin' my notebook into my backpack while Mama reminded me not to forget my lunch. The bus ride was bumpy, and me and Abby talked the whole way about our gator project. She said her daddy saw one last summer that was "bigger than a car," though I figured she was stretchin' it just a little.

When we got to Folkston Elementary, we filed into class, and Mr. Johnson stood at the front like always, all straight-backed with his pressed shirt. He gave us that calm, clear "Good morning, class," and we all answered back—most of us anyway. Jacob kind of mumbled his "mornin'," and I saw Mr. Johnson's eyes narrow just a little. He didn't say nothin', but we all knew he noticed.

Math was first again, just like yesterday, and we were still workin' on our times tables—the zeros.

"Alright, class," Mr. Johnson said, steppin' up to the chalkboard. "Let's review. We talked about the zeros yesterday. Does anyone remember why multiplying by zero always gives you...?"

He paused, waitin'.

I shot my hand up quick. "Zero, sir."

"That's right, Emily. And can you remind the class why that is?"

I sat up a little straighter. "'Cause when you multiply somethin' by zero... it's like you don't have anythin'. Like, if you have five groups of nothin', you still got nothin'."

Mr. Johnson smiled and nodded. "Very good, Emily. That's exactly right. Five groups of zero is still zero. Or seven groups of zero is zero. No matter what number you start with—if you multiply it by zero, you end up with zero. Because... you have nothing."

He wrote it out big on the board:

5 x 0 = 0
7 x 0 = 0
12 x 0 = 0

It made sense to me now. It was kinda simple once you thought of it like that.

But then, Jacob raised his hand, his face all scrunched up.

"But... wait... so... what's zero times five? Is that still zero?" he asked, soundin' confused.

A few of the kids snickered, but Mr. Johnson held up his hand for quiet.

"Yes, Jacob," he said, patient but firm. "It works both ways. Zero times any number is still zero. Think of it this way—you can flip the numbers around. It's the same. Zero groups of five is still... nothing."

Jacob frowned, tappin' his pencil against his desk like he was battlin' it out in his head.

"So... zero times a hundred... still zero?"

"Yes."

"Zero times a thousand?"

"Yes, Jacob."

"...What about zero times a million?"

Mr. Johnson chuckled softly. "Still zero."

A few of us laughed, includin' me, but Jacob smiled too, finally gettin' it. I think.

"Alright, let's practice," Mr. Johnson said, handin' out some worksheets.

I started on mine, scribblin' through the zeros quick, feelin' pretty sure about 'em now. But I glanced over and saw Jacob still sittin' there, starin' at his paper, pencil hoverin'.

I leaned over just a bit, whisperin', "Hey... it's all zeros. Don't overthink it."

He glanced at me, then back down at his paper. I saw him write a big zero.

He gave me a little thumbs-up under his desk.

I smiled.

Math was tough sometimes... but at least we were all figurin' it out together.

After math, we had a quick break before reading class started. I was still feelin' pretty good about helpin' Jacob out earlier, but I knew readin' wasn't his favorite part of the day.

Mr. Johnson stood at the front of the room, holdin' a paper in his hand. His voice was clear and steady like always.

"Alright, class," he said. "This month, we're startin' somethin' new. You'll each pick a book to read, and at the end of the month, you'll give a short presentation about it."

There were a few groans, mostly from the back, but I leaned forward, curious. I liked readin'. Not as much as runnin' around outside—but still, I liked a good story.

"I've made a list of some books you might enjoy," Mr. Johnson continued. He held up the sheet and started readin' off names.

"The Bad Guys by Aaron Blabey."
"Charlotte's Web by E.B. White."
"Stuart Little by E.B. White."
"Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder."
"James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl."
"Pippi Longstocking by Astrid Lindgren."
"The Trumpet of the Swan by E.B. White."

I knew a couple of those names. Mama had read Charlotte's Web to me when I was little, and Papa had told me about Little House in the Big Woods—he said it was kinda like the stories his grandma used to tell about growin' up.

"You don't have to pick from this list," Mr. Johnson added. "But you do need to pick a chapter book. And when we go to the library today, I want you to start lookin' for one you're interested in."

I saw Jacob slump back in his seat a little, and I knew he was hopin' for somethin' with more pictures and fewer words. But Mr. Johnson didn't give him much time to complain. He clapped his hands.

"Alright, line up. Let's head to the library."

We all got up, chairs scrapin' against the floor, and made our way down the hall. The library smelled like paper and floor polish, and the shelves were packed with books that seemed to stretch up forever—at least to us kids.

Mr. Johnson reminded us once we were inside, "Remember—this is a time to look for a book for your report. Comics are fun, but they're not what we're lookin' for today."

He gave Jacob a little look when he said it, but that didn't seem to sink in.

I started wanderin' through the shelves with Abby, pickin' up a few books here and there. She grabbed James and the Giant Peach off the list and said her sister loved it.

"I think this one looks fun," she said, flippin' through the pages.

"Yeah, it's got bugs in it," I said, grinnin'. "Sounds good to me."

I was still tryin' to decide when somethin' caught my eye near the back corner—a book with a big ol' gator right on the cover.

Alligators and Crocodiles: Predators of the Swamp.

My heart jumped a little. It was like the book had been waitin' for me.

I pulled it off the shelf, flippin' through the pictures of sharp teeth, scaly tails, and wide, powerful jaws. There were facts about how they hunt, how fast they can swim, and even how their eyes glow at night.

"This is perfect for our project," I whispered to Abby, showin' her a page with a huge gator in the water.

Her eyes got wide. "That thing's huge!"

I nodded. Papa would love this—I just knew it. And it'd help us make our poster even better.

While I was checkin' out the gator book, we heard a little commotion over by the comics section.

"Oh no," Abby muttered. "Look."

We peeked around the shelf and saw Jacob standin' there, holdin' a Garfield book, with a stack of Peanuts comics right beside him. He had this guilty look on his face, like he knew he was caught.

Mr. Johnson was right there, arms crossed, brows raised.

"Jacob," he said, his voice firm but not mean. "I believe I mentioned chapter books, didn't I?"

"Yes, sir," Jacob mumbled, slidin' the Garfield book back onto the shelf.

"You can check those out another time," Mr. Johnson said. "But today, you're findin' a proper book for your report."

"Yes, sir," Jacob repeated, red in the face.

Me and Abby ducked back behind the shelf, tryin' not to laugh.

---

As we stood in line to check out our books, Abby nudged me with her elbow.

"So, what chapter book did you pick out?" she asked.

I held up my second book—it wasn't the gator one, though I was still clutchin' that close. This one had a little girl on the cover, sittin' on a pile of books, with her finger restin' on her chin like she was figurin' out a big secret.

"It's called Matilda, by Roald Dahl," I said, squintin' at the name. "I think he wrote that peach book you got, too."

Abby peeked at it. "What's it about?"

I shrugged. "I dunno... but it looked like a good book."

That was the truth. I didn't have a clue what it was about—but somethin' about the cover, and the big stack of books, made me think it'd be interestin'.

"Probably better than Little House on the Prairie," Abby whispered, grinnin'.

I giggled. "Yeah... though I bet Mama woulda liked that one.

When we all checked out our books, I carried my gator book like it was gold. I couldn't wait to show it to Papa. He'd probably know half the stuff in it already—but still, it felt like I'd found somethin' special. Like a piece of home right there in the library.

When the bell rang after class, we all bolted out onto the playground like a stampede of wild horses let loose. It was hot—real hot—the kind of heat that made the air shimmer and the dirt hard as bricks beneath our shoes. But that didn't matter. Me and Abby were ready, and so were the boys.

Jacob was already callin' across the field. "Y'all ready to get whooped this time?" he hollered, bouncin' the soccer ball on his knee, a cocky grin spread across his face.

I smirked, hands on my hips. "We'll see who's gettin' whooped!"

We all knew the drill. The sticks got set up for goals, same as always. No goalies, no refs, just pride on the line. The boys versus me and Abby. We weren't about to let 'em win easy.

Mr. Anderson, the playground attendant, leaned against the chain-link fence with his sunglasses perched on his nose. He had that easy kind of watchful look, arms crossed, but we all knew he didn't put up with foolishness. If anyone got too wild, he'd be right there in a heartbeat.

The sun beat down on us like it had a grudge. Sweat already trickled down the back of my neck, and my hair stuck to my forehead. The dust from the field clung to our shoes and made little clouds with every step.

The game started fast. Jacob and Brian pushed hard, tryin' to get that first goal. Jacob was quick, and Brian had a powerful kick, but Abby cut 'em off fast, her face all set with determination. She sent the ball my way with a sharp tap.

"Here, Emily!" Abby shouted.

I took off, my legs burnin' but feelin' strong. The wind rushed past my ears, and my heart pounded in time with my footsteps. I could hear the boys closin' in behind me. Jacob was fast, but I was faster—or at least I felt like I was.

I passed it back to Abby, and she dashed forward like a blur. The boys weren't givin' up, though. Elbows out, feet flyin'—we were all breathin' hard now, the game gettin' rougher by the second. Nobody wanted to lose.

Then it happened.

I was movin' fast, tryin' to block Jacob from takin' a shot. My eyes were locked on the ball, my mind thinkin' one step ahead. But I didn't see it—a root or a rock, half-buried under the dirt. My foot hit it hard. Everything went wrong in an instant.

I stumbled forward, arms flailin', my knee scrapin' against the dry ground before I landed hard on my side. My left arm twisted underneath me in a way it shouldn't have. Pain shot up from my wrist to my elbow—sharp and quick, like fire shootin' through my bones.

"Ow!" I yelped, tears stingin' my eyes before I could stop 'em. I curled around my arm, holdin' it close to my chest. It throbbed somethin' awful.

Everything froze for a second. The boys stopped, their faces shiftin' from tough to worried. Abby skidded to a stop beside me, her eyes wide and mouth tight.

Jacob stood there too, his cocky grin gone. His face looked kinda pale. Maybe he thought it was his fault.

"Emily, you okay?" Abby asked, kneelin' beside me. Her voice was soft, but there was worry underneath it.

I tried to nod, but my voice was shaky. "I—I think I hurt my arm..."

Before anyone could say more, Mr. Anderson was already stridin' over, his sunglasses pushed up on his head now, eyes serious.

"What happened here?" he asked, his voice calm but firm.

"She fell, hit her arm," Abby explained fast.

Mr. Anderson knelt down, his hand gentle on my shoulder. "Alright, let's get you to the nurse. You think you can walk, sweetheart?"

I nodded, even though my wrist throbbed somethin' fierce. He helped me up slow, keepin' a steady hand on my back as we started toward the school.

Before I got too far, I turned back, holdin' my sore arm close. "Keep playin'! Beat 'em for me!"

Abby stood up straighter, eyes flashin' with determination. "We got this!"

Jacob gave a small nod, lookin' sorry but ready to keep goin'. The game roared back to life—dust risin', shoes poundin' the ground. Abby led the charge now, and I knew she wasn't about to let them win without a fight.

As I walked inside with Mr. Anderson, the pain in my arm was bad, but there was somethin' good about knowin' Abby was out there, playin' her heart out for both of us.

The air inside Mrs. Tate's office felt colder than the rest of the school—too cold—especially after comin' in from the hot sun. My cheeks were still flushed, my hair stuck to my forehead, and my wrist was throbbin', feelin' like it had its own little heartbeat.

The room was small and tidy, with white walls that made everything feel even colder, and cabinets lined with plastic bins labeled with black marker—Bandages, Ice Packs, Cotton Balls. There was a faint smell of alcohol wipes and that weird rubbery scent from the gloves she always wore.

Her desk sat in the corner, neat and organized—a black phone, a lamp, and a row of those little plastic trays holdin' papers. I noticed a bowl of peppermint candies, the kind that melted quick in your mouth, sittin' right next to a box of tissues.

"Alright, sugar, come on and sit right here," Mrs. Tate said, pullin' out a metal stool with a padded top, the kind that squeaked every time you shifted.

I climbed up slowly, cradlin' my arm, tryin' not to move it too much. It still hurt, but I didn't wanna cry—I was tougher than that, but the sting was still workin' its way up to my elbow.

Mrs. Tate knelt down beside me, her hands gentle as she looked me over. She had short, gray hair cut neat like Mama's friend from church, and reading glasses on a chain danglin' around her neck.

"Let's take a look," she said softly, her fingers cool and smooth against my skin as she touched my wrist.

I winced.

"Hm... Sore, huh?"

"Yes, ma'am," I mumbled, starin' at the scuffed tips of my shoes to keep from lookin' at what she was doin'.

She turned my hand slowly, checkin' my range of motion—bending my wrist up, then down, then side to side. I bit my lip when it hurt, but I didn't say nothin'. Her fingers pressed around my wrist bone—gently at first, then firmer—lookin' for any spots that might be worse off.

"Does this hurt?" she asked, pressin' on the side.

"A little," I said, my voice tight.

She nodded, like she already knew the answer.

"Looks like just a sprain—nothin' broken. You're lucky," she said, reachin' over to grab a roll of white bandage wrap from the bin labeled 'Wraps & Splints'.

I watched as she unrolled it with a soft whooshing sound, then started wrappin' it around my wrist and up toward my hand, snug but not too tight. The fabric was slightly rough against my skin, but the pressure made the ache dull down just a little.

"This'll keep it supported. You'll need to take it easy today, alright? No more soccer, no climbin', no horsin' around."

I nodded, though it stung to hear that. No soccer? That meant watchin' from the sidelines tomorrow, and that just didn't sit right with me.

"You want some ice?" she asked.

I thought about it but shook my head. I didn't want to stay here longer than I had to.

"Alright, but if it starts swellin', you let me know," she said, patting my knee lightly.

I glanced toward the bowl of peppermints on her desk.

She caught me lookin' and smiled. "Go on, take one."

I slid off the stool, feelin' the squeak of it under me one last time, and grabbed a peppermint from the bowl. The wrapper crinkled loudly in my hand, and I popped the candy into my mouth. Sweet and cool, it melted fast—like it always did—but it made me feel a little better.

"Tell your teacher I said you're good to go, just need to rest that arm," Mrs. Tate said, scribblin' a quick note on a yellow slip of paper with my name on it. She folded it in half and handed it to me.

"Thank you, ma'am," I said, tucking the note in my pocket.

I stepped out of her office, back into the hall, the air suddenly feelin' warmer again. My wrist still hurt, but now it was wrapped up tight, like a badge of honor from the day's battle.

And the peppermint? Well, that made the pain just a little sweeter.

The bell rang, and the game was over—Jacob's voice ringin' out louder than anyone's.

"Boys win! Five to four! Y'all better be ready tomorrow!" he hollered, arms in the air like he was some kinda champion.

I was just steppin' out of the nurse's office, my wrist wrapped up tight, when Abby caught up with me outside the cafeteria doors. Her face was twisted in that mix of mad and disappointed.

"They got us," she grumbled. "Jacob scored the last goal. He won't shut up about it."

I glanced past her and sure enough, there was Jacob and Brian, laughin' and carryin' on like they'd won a trophy.

I sighed, holdin' my wrist close. "I figured. You okay?"

"Yeah, just... we almost had 'em," she said, kickin' at the floor a little.

"We'll get 'em tomorrow," I said, givin' her a grin that was part encouragement and part challenge. "Soon as my wrist's better... they're goin' down."

That got Abby smilin' again, just a little. "Yeah. We'll make 'em sorry."

We headed to our usual spot in the cafeteria, but instead of gettin' in line for hot lunch, I dug my brown paper bag outta my backpack.

Inside was the sandwich Mama made this mornin', with the bread she baked last night. It was soft and warm when we pulled it outta the oven yesterday, and now it still smelled better than anything you could buy in town.

I peeled back the baggie, takin' a big bite—ham and cheese with a little smear of mustard, tucked between those fresh slices Mama had worked so hard on.

"Homemade bread again?" Abby asked, eyein' my sandwich.

"Yep," I said, mouth full, but happy.

She unwrapped her peanut butter and jelly, but I caught her sneakin' another glance at mine.

"You can have a bite if you want," I offered.

"Nah," she said, but I could tell she was tempted.

Jacob's voice carried across the lunchroom. "Y'all know that goal was perfect, right? I mean, right through the sticks."

I rolled my eyes, chewin' my sandwich slower.

"We'll shut him up tomorrow," I whispered.

"You better believe it," Abby grinned.

I took another big bite of Mama's fresh bread sandwich, the soft crust still tastin' like yesterday even after sittin' in my bag all mornin'. Jacob's voice drifted over from his table like he was tryin' to make sure the whole lunchroom heard him.

"I mean, did y'all see that goal? Best shot I ever made. Ain't no stoppin' me tomorrow," he said, laughin' with Brian.

Abby sighed and rolled her eyes.
"He's gonna be talkin' 'bout that goal all week."

I grinned, wipin' a crumb from my mouth.
"Let him. We'll see how much he talks when we beat him next time."

She smirked but then leaned in a little closer.
"So... Matilda, huh? What's it about?"

I shrugged.
"I don't know much... I just liked the cover. It looked kinda... fun?"

Abby nodded, takin' a sip of her chocolate milk.
"So Roald Dahl wrote both of them. He must be pretty good if we both grabbed his books."

I smiled. "Guess we'll find out."

She thought for a second, then grinned.
"You think it's like James and the Giant Peach? Like, does Matilda live in a giant fruit?"

I almost spit out my drink laughin'.
"I don't think so... but that'd be kinda funny!"

We both giggled, imaginin' some poor girl livin' inside a watermelon or somethin'.

"You're gonna have to tell me if it's good," Abby said. "If it is, maybe I'll read it next."

I nodded.
"Deal. You gotta let me know if that peach book's any good, too."

We clinked our chocolate milk cartons like we were makin' some kind of official pact.

Jacob's voice cut through again, still loud, still full of himself.
"We're runnin' y'all into the ground tomorrow. Just get ready."

I shot him a quick look, but Abby nudged me.

"Let him run his mouth," she whispered. "We'll handle him later."

I grinned, takin' the last bite of my sandwich.
Mama's bread tasted even better knowin' we had a plan.

I was sittin' on the couch, my wrist restin' on a pillow, while Mama fussed over me like I'd gone and broken every bone in my body. The afternoon sun poured through the window, casting warm light across the room, but it didn't soften the tight knot of worry in Mama's face. She didn't say much, but I could see it plain as day every time her eyes flicked to my hand.

"You sure you ain't feelin' worse?" she asked, her voice soft but firm, the way it got when she meant business.

"I'm fine, Mama," I said, though the dull ache in my wrist hadn't let up since recess. The wrap Mrs. Tate put on it at school felt snug, but the throb underneath was steady. "Mrs. Tate said it's just a sprain."

Mama sighed, wipin' her hands on her apron like she was tryin' to wipe the worry away too. Her brow was creased, and I knew she wouldn't rest easy until I was back to runnin' around like my usual self.

"I know... I just don't like seein' you hurt," she murmured.

She disappeared into the kitchen, the sound of the freezer door creakin' open and the rustle of plastic bags fillin' the quiet. A minute later, she came back with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel.

"Here—put this on it," she said, handin' it over like it was a cure-all.

I took the peas and laid them gently over my wrist. The cold bit in sharp at first, sendin' a shiver up my arm, but then it started to dull the ache. I relaxed into the cushion a little, lettin' the coolness work its magic.

Mama sat down beside me, her arm restin' lightly across my shoulders, warm and comfortin'. I leaned into her, breathin' in the faint scent of flour and soap that always clung to her.

"I was thinkin' we'd make Khachapuri tonight," she said, her voice soft but a little brighter. "I know how much you liked it when we made it last time."

My face lit up. I loved Khachapuri—the warm, doughy bread filled with gooey cheese and topped with an egg, all melty and rich. Papa called it "cheese boat bread" the first time we made it, and we all laughed, but it stuck.

"That sounds real good, Mama," I said, the ache in my wrist forgotten for a second.

"Can I help?" I asked, hopeful.

Mama looked at me like I'd sprouted a second head.
"With one hand? I don't think so, baby. You just sit tight."

I frowned, my face fallin' a little.
"But I always help," I mumbled. Bein' in the kitchen with Mama was our thing. Choppin', stirrin', tastin'—it felt wrong sittin' out.

Mama sighed again, but this time, there was a small smile tuggin' at her lips.
"You're just like your Papa—stubborn as a mule," she said, givin' me a squeeze.

I grinned, feelin' proud of that. Bein' like Papa was a good thing in my book.

As Mama got up and started gatherin' the flour and cheese, I watched her from the couch, listenin' to the familiar sounds of home—the clink of the mixing bowl, the whisk scrapin' against it, and the quiet hum of her voice as she started hummin' a hymn from church.

Even though my wrist hurt, everythin' still felt right.

And I couldn't wait to tear into that cheesy bread later.

I yawned, grabbed the remote off the coffee table and turned on the TV.
The screen lit up to WJXT 4, the same news channel Mama always had on when she was cleanin' or startin' dinner.

The news anchor, a woman with short blonde hair and a real serious face, was talkin' about somethin' that sounded important—but not to me.

"Authorities are still investigatin' the cause of the brush fire that broke out late Sunday evening near the edge of the Osceola National Forest. Fire crews say the blaze burned through approximately twenty acres before it was contained this mornin'. No homes were damaged, but officials remind residents to remain cautious during this dry season."

I blinked, not really takin' it all in, but listenin' just the same. I knew where Osceola was—it wasn't too far, but not close enough to worry Mama or Papa.

The screen switched to a shot of a man in a suit standin' outside, wavin' his hand toward a map with a bunch of red arrows.

"And in weather," he said with a voice that almost made me yawn, "temperatures will remain high through the weekend, with a chance of scattered thunderstorms Friday afternoon. Humidity levels will be up, so it'll be another sticky one, folks."

I slouched lower into the couch, adjustin' the bag of peas on my wrist.
The weatherman's hands kept wavin' around like he was directin' traffic, but all I heard was: hot, sticky, maybe rain—same as always in Georgia.

Then came the part that made me perk up a little.

"In sports, the Jacksonville Jaguars are gearin' up for their preseason opener this Saturday. Head coach Doug Pederson says the team's lookin' strong, with quarterback Trevor Lawrence leadin' drills at today's practice."

I smiled a little. Papa liked the Jaguars, even when they weren't winnin' much. When he watched a game on Sunday, I'd sit next to him sometimes, pretendin' I understood more than I really did. Mostly, I just liked cheerin' when he cheered.

The news went back to the anchor.

"And finally, a reminder that the annual Okefenokee Swamp Festival is just a few weeks away. Organizers say there'll be live music, local crafts, and of course, plenty of fried gator tail for those feelin' brave."

That part made me laugh—gator tail was nothin' new to me, but folks from out of town always acted like it was some wild, exotic thing.

Mama peeked out from the kitchen.
"What's so funny?"

"They're talkin' 'bout gator tail like it's fancy food."

She laughed, shakin' her head.
"Well, I reckon we're a little more used to it than most."

I nodded, sinkin' back into the couch. The news kept on, but it started driftin' into that kinda background noise that made my eyes feel heavy.

The news kept on, but after a few more minutes of brush fires and traffic reports, my mind started wanderin'. My wrist still ached under the bag of peas, and listenin' to grown folks talk about the weather wasn't doin' much to make me feel better.

I grabbed the remote and clicked through a few channels until bright colors filled the screen—some cartoon I didn't recognize, but it didn't matter. Little animals runnin' around, chasin' each other with big eyes and squeaky voices—the kind of thing that always made me smile, even when I tried to act like I was too old for it.

I sank deeper into the couch, lettin' the silly voices and cheerful music wash over me like a warm breeze. For a little while, I forgot all about my wrist, the soccer game, and Jacob's gloatin'. It was just me, the couch, and some goofy cartoon dog dancin' across the screen.

Mama peeked in from the kitchen, saw me smilin', and gave a little nod like she was glad I'd found somethin' to lift my spirits.

Sometimes, cartoons could fix a day better than any ice pack.

I was halfway through watchin' some silly cartoon dog fall into a bucket of paint when I heard the familiar honk of Papa's truck down the driveway. My heart jumped like it always did when he got home—I loved seein' him, hearin' about his day, and most of all, maybe gettin' a little surprise he made at work.

I started to push myself up off the couch, ready to run out like I always did, but Mama's voice cut me short.

"Uh-uh, Emily. You stay right there," she said from the kitchen, her tone soft but firm. "Let him come in."

I stopped, a little pout formnin' on my lips.
"But Mama—"

"No 'buts.' That wrist needs rest. You heard what Mrs. Tate said."

I sighed, slinkin' back into the couch.
Didn't feel right.
I always ran out to see Papa—always. Not today, though. I stayed put, feelin' kinda like one of those chickens when Mama made them sit still in her lap for trimmin' their feathers.

The screen door creaked open, and I heard Papa's boots hit the wooden floor.
He called out like he always did—loud and cheery.

"I'm home!"

Usually, I'd be wrapped 'round his waist by now, but today, I stayed quiet on the couch, feelin' a little awkward.
I saw Papa peek 'round the corner, his brows liftin' when he saw me sittin' still.

"Well, what's this now? My wild little girl ain't rushin' out to tackle me? Somethin' wrong?" His voice was light, but there was a thread of concern under it. He knew me too well.

Mama came in, dryin' her hands on a dish towel, shootin' me a look that said, You tell him, or I will.

I shifted, holdin' up my wrist.
"I hurt it... at recess," I admitted, a little embarrassed. "Fell playin' soccer."

Papa's eyes narrowed slightly—not angry, just worried. He came over, crouchin' beside the couch.
"Let me see, baby."

I carefully pulled the peas off, showin' him the wrap. He examined it close, his rough fingers gentle against my skin.

"Mrs. Tate did this?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," I nodded. "She said it's just a sprain."

Papa let out a slow breath, his worry easin' a little.
"Well... looks like she fixed you up right. You gonna be okay, kiddo?"

"I'm okay," I said, though my voice was quieter than usual.

He smiled, rufflin' my hair real gentle so he didn't bump my wrist.
"That's my tough girl."

Mama was watchin' us from the doorway, her arms crossed—but her eyes had softened now that Papa knew what was goin' on.

"Dinner'll be ready soon," she said, "so don't get her riled up."

Papa stood, smilin' at her.
"No rilin'—I promise."

But I knew he'd still sneak me somethin' fun later—maybe a carved critter, or a story, or just a joke to make me laugh. That was how Papa was.

"Lord, we thank You for this food, for the hands that made it, and for the day You gave us. We ask You to bless this home and our family. And, Lord, please watch over Emily's wrist—help it heal up quick and strong. Amen."

"Amen," Mama and I said together.

I peeked up at Papa, feelin' a little knot in my chest—the good kind.
I always loved the way he prayed.
Simple. Honest. Like he was talkin' to a friend.

Dinner smelled amazing.

Mama had set out the Khachapuri, still steamin', the cheese bubblin' in the center with the egg just right.
There were also some fresh tomatoes sliced with salt and pepper and sweet tea—the kind that made your teeth tingle a little.

As we dug in, I tried my best to cut into the Khachapuri with my left hand—the wrong hand. It felt all kinds of awkward.
The fork kept slippin', and when I finally got a piece up to my mouth, some cheese stretched out like a string, dangling halfway to my chin.

Mama noticed, hidin' a smile behind her napkin.
"Want some help, baby?"

"No, ma'am," I said, determined.
I gripped the fork tighter, like it was a wild horse needin' taming, and managed to get another bite.

Papa chuckled low under his breath, watchin' me wrestle my dinner.

"You'll get it, kiddo," he said with a wink.
"Back when I broke my thumb workin' on Old Man Harper's roof, I had to hammer nails with my left hand for two weeks straight. Thought I was gonna knock the whole house down. But I got the hang of it. You will too."

I smiled, feelin' a little better. If Papa could do it, so could I.

Mama gave him a look like she'd heard that story a thousand times, but it still made her smile.

"How was work today?" she asked him, spearin' a tomato slice with her fork.

Papa wiped his mouth with his napkin, leanin' back in his chair a little.
"Busy as ever. Worked on finishin' up the cabinets for the Tanners' kitchen. They want that fancy wood—what's it called? Walnut?"

Mama nodded. "That's the expensive kind."

Papa laughed. "Sure is. Had me sweatin' all day, makin' sure I didn't mess it up. Sanded every piece twice, just to be safe. But it's comin' together real nice. Gonna look sharp."

I listened close, picturin' him in the workshop, sawdust floatin' through the air, sunlight streamin' in from the windows while he built those cabinets with his own two hands.

"Did you make anything else?" I asked, hopin' for another little wooden critter like the fox or the gator.

Papa smiled. "Not today. But maybe tomorrow... we'll see."

I nodded, satisfied.
Just the thought that he might make somethin' special for me someday soon made my heart feel warm.

After we cleaned up from dinner—Mama not lettin' me touch a single dish with my wrist wrapped up—we all made our way to the porch.
That was our favorite place to end the day, especially when the air was still warm but not too hot, and the sun was slippin' behind the trees.

Papa settled into his rocker, his boots tappin' lightly against the wooden floorboards.
Mama took her spot on the swing, a glass of sweet tea in her hand, swayin' slow.
And I sat cross-legged right there on the porch steps, restin' my arm on my knee, lookin' out at the yard as the first lightning bugs started flickerin' in the grass.

We were quiet for a while, just listenin' to the swamp sounds—frogs croakin', crickets chirpin', and the far-off hoot of an owl somewhere past the trees.

Then Papa leaned forward, his voice low and easy.

"You know, my granddaddy—your great-granddaddy—he used to sit on a porch kinda like this every night, just like we're doin' now," he started, his eyes gazin' out like he was seein' a memory instead of the yard.
"He was a tough man—hard workin'. Built this here house with his bare hands, every board and nail. And he could fish better than anyone I ever met."

I leaned in, eager. I loved hearin' about family from before I was born—especially folks like Great-Granddaddy, who sounded like he belonged in a storybook.

"What was his name?" I asked.

"Henry," Papa said with a little grin, like just sayin' his name brought back a flood of memories.
"Henry Saunders. But everyone 'round here called him Hank."

"Hank," I repeated, likin' the sound of it.

Papa nodded. "He was quiet most days, but when he talked, you listened. I remember sittin' out with him, kinda like we are now, and he'd tell me all about the swamp—where the best fishin' holes were, how to read the water when the gators were nearby, and how to follow deer tracks through the woods."

He paused, rockin' slow.

"One time... I was 'bout your age, maybe a little older. We were fishin' at the creek down past the old Miller place—before that land got cleared. I hooked the biggest catfish I'd ever seen. I was reelin' and fightin', and just when I thought I had him, the line snapped. I thought I was gonna cry right there. But your great-granddaddy? He just patted me on the back and said, 'Sometimes the fish wins, boy. But we come back tomorrow.'"

I smiled, picturin' Papa as a kid, all frustrated over losin' a fish.
That sounded like somethin' Papa would say to me now, and it made me feel closer to Great-Granddaddy Hank, even though I'd never met him.

Mama was smilin' too, listenin' quietly like she loved hearin' these stories just as much as I did.

I tucked my knees up to my chest, restin' my chin on them.
I liked thinkin' about family sittin' on porches just like this, sharin' stories, listenin' to the frogs, and watchin' the sun go down.

It made me feel like I was part of somethin' bigger—like Hank's blood was in me too, makin' me strong, teachin' me patience... even when it came to healin' up a sprained wrist.

---

The rain started sometime in the night—soft at first, just a tap-tap-tap on the tin roof—but by mornin', it was pourin'.
I woke up to the gray sky peekin' through my window, and the sound of frogs singin' even louder than usual from the swamp.

Mama was already up, fixin' breakfast, and the house smelled like bacon and eggs.
But I could hear the steady patter of rain on the porch, and I knew what that meant—no recess outside.

It was Friday, too.
I should've been excited for the weekend, but part of me still wanted one more soccer match—a real rematch—to get back at Jacob and his braggin'.
But with the rain comin' down like this, there'd be none of that.

School always felt different when it rained, especially on a Friday.
The halls seemed quieter, and the classrooms smelled like damp coats and wet shoes.
Jacob and the boys would still be gloatin', but now they wouldn't get to prove anything on the playground—and neither would we.

Jacob was already grumblin' before the bell even rang.
He came stompin' into class, drippin' rain onto the floor, his hair stickin' up in all directions like he'd been wrestlin' with the wind.

"This rain's the worst," he muttered to anyone who'd listen, throwin' his backpack down by his desk.
"We were gonna win today, too. I know it."

I rolled my eyes, shufflin' my books into place with my wrapped-up wrist still feelin' stiff.
"You ain't winnin' nothin', Jacob. We're still up two to one."

That shut him up real quick.
He opened his mouth like he was fixin' to argue but closed it again. He knew I was right.

Before he could come up with somethin' else to say, the loudspeaker crackled to life above us.

"Attention, students," Principal Taylor's voice filled the room, all serious and official-like.
"Due to an injury during recess yesterday, there will be no more rivalry games allowed during recess for the foreseeable future. That means no boys versus girls soccer matches or any other competitive games."

The class let out a mix of groans and murmurs, with a few whispered "What?" and "That's not fair!"

Jacob's face turned redder than a tomato.
"No way!" he whispered, his fists balled up on his desk. "That ain't right!"

But Abby leaned over toward me, smirkin'.
"Well... guess that means we win."

I grinned right back.

Jacob heard us, I knew he did.
He didn't say nothin' though.
He just sat there, stewin' in his seat, his arms crossed, gloatin' time over.

Once everyone settled down after the loudspeaker announcement, Mr. Johnson stepped to the front of the room, clappin' his hands together lightly to get our attention.

"Alright, class. Let's get back to our multiplication tables," he said, his voice calm and clear like always.
"I know we started with the zero facts yesterday... and some of us," his eyes shifted over to Jacob, "still need a little more practice."

I let out the smallest sigh, careful not to be loud about it.
Abby glanced at me and did the same.
We both knew the zeros—we'd known them since the first time he explained it.

Zero times anything is zero.
That was easy as pie.
Didn't matter if it was zero times two or zero times a million. It was still nothin'.

Mr. Johnson started writin' on the board again, goin' over the same problems as yesterday.

0 x 1 = __
0 x 2 = __
0 x 3 = __

I slumped down in my seat a little, twirlin' my pencil between my fingers.
I liked math most days—when it was movin' forward—but this was startin' to feel like we were just sittin' in place, spinnin' our wheels.

Abby leaned over real quiet-like and whispered, "I could do this with my eyes closed."

I nodded. "Me too. I wanna get to the ones or twos."

Mr. Johnson must've noticed the whisperin' 'cause he glanced our way, but he didn't say nothin'.
Instead, he turned back to the class and said, "Now, remember—multiplication is not the same as adding. We talked about this yesterday. Who can tell me... what is zero times four?"

Jacob shot his hand up like he was gonna redeem himself.

"Four," he said proudly.

A few kids snickered, and I couldn't help but smile a little too.

Mr. Johnson didn't laugh, though.
He just nodded like he expected it.

"Now, Jacob... let's think about it. If you have zero groups of four... how many do you have?"

Jacob's face scrunched up like he was tryin' to do the math in his head.
After a long pause, he muttered, "Zero?"

"Exactly," Mr. Johnson said, his face lightenin' up a little like Jacob had won a prize.
"It's not adding—it's groups. And if you don't have any groups, you don't have anything."

Jacob nodded slowly, like it was startin' to sink in.

But I was still sittin' there, tappin' my pencil, wishin' we'd move on to the real stuff.

The ones. The twos. Somethin' new.

After math finally wrapped up, I was more than ready to move on to somethin' else.
Mr. Johnson clapped his hands lightly again, gettin' our attention.

"Alright, class. Time for Reading. Grab your books—the ones you picked out yesterday."

I grinned, feelin' that little spark of excitement bubble up.
I reached into my desk and pulled out Matilda, the bright yellow cover feelin' smooth under my fingertips.

Mr. Johnson stood at the front of the room, his voice calm and clear like always.
"Today, I want you to read the first chapter. When you finish it—read it again.
Take your time. Pay attention to every word. See what you notice the second time that you might've missed the first."

A few kids let out small groans, and I heard Jacob mutter somethin' about "readin' the same thing twice," but I didn't care.
I was already flippin' open to page one, feelin' that little thrill that always came when startin' a new story.

I knew nothin' about Matilda, but that just made it better.
I liked the idea that every page was a surprise waitin' for me.

The room got quiet, except for the soft rustlin' of pages turnin' and the occasional cough.
I sank into my chair, lettin' the words pull me in.

I flipped to the first page of Matilda and started readin'.
Right away, it talked about how most parents think their kids are the best thing ever—like their little angels can do no wrong.
I smiled a little at that, thinkin' 'bout Mama and Papa always tellin' me they're proud. Even when I got into mischief, Papa would just shake his head, smilin', like it was all part of bein' a kid.

But then the book said some parents don't care much at all.
That made my heart sink a little.
Matilda's parents were like that.
They didn't see how special she was—they just ignored her.

Matilda was smart, though.
Like, real smart—teaching herself to read by age three.
That part made me blink.
Three?!
I was still figurin' out letters at three, and here she was readin' books all by herself.

But her parents didn't care.
Her daddy told her to watch TV instead.

That part made me kinda mad.
I couldn't imagine Papa ever sayin' somethin' like that.
He liked readin' the paper every mornin'—and he always said learnin' stuff was important.
Mama too—she'd let me sit beside her and read recipes, even if I stumbled over words sometimes.

So Matilda snuck off to the library—all by herself.
That part made me kinda nervous just readin' it.
I didn't think Mama would ever let me go somewhere alone, especially at her age.
But Matilda was brave, and the lady at the library—Mrs. Phelps—didn't stop her.
Instead, she gave her a book called Great Expectations—a big fancy one that grown-ups read.

I'd never read that, but it sounded important.
Matilda read it like it was nothin', and when she finished, she read even more books—all those old, famous ones.

That part made me kinda jealous—all those books, all that time just to read and drink hot chocolate?
That sounded perfect.

I glanced up for a second, lookin' around the room.
Most kids were still readin', but Abby caught my eye and gave a little smile, holdin' up her book—it was James and the Giant Peach.
I smiled back, then went back to Matilda.

Readin' about her made me feel lucky—I had Mama and Papa who cared about me.
But it also made me wanna be smart like her.
Maybe not readin' grown-up books at three, but still—learnin' things, figurin' stuff out.
Bein' someone who could do anything.

So when I finished that first chapter, I did what Mr. Johnson said—I read it again.
And the second time, it all felt even clearer—like I was gettin' to know Matilda better, like she was a friend.

When Mr. Johnson finally told us to close our books, I felt a little disappointed—I was gettin' into Matilda's world, and I kinda wanted to see what happened next.
But before I could dwell on it too long, the recess bell rang.

Usually, that sound meant runnin' outside, soccer games, and chasin' each other around the playground.
But today? Not with the rain pourin' down like it was tryin' to flood the whole town.

Instead, we were stuck inside—indoor recess.
It didn't happen often, but when it did, Mr. Johnson always dragged out the same old stack of games from the shelf in the back.
Checkers, Connect Four, a puzzle with missin' pieces—and Snakes and Ladders.

That one was my favorite, even if it could drive you crazy.
One second you're climbin' up a ladder, thinkin' you're about to win—and the next, you're slidin' down a snake's back all the way to the bottom.

Me and Abby grabbed the Snakes and Ladders board right away before anyone else could get it.
Jacob saw us and wandered over, arms crossed, still salty about the soccer thing.

"You sure you can handle this game, Jacob?" I teased.
"Lots of slippin' and slidin'. Might hurt your pride."

He narrowed his eyes, but I saw the smile peekin' out.
"Bring it on."

We sat cross-legged on the floor, settin' up the board.
The dice clattered against the tile, and we all leaned in close like it was the biggest game in the world.

Jacob landed on a snake right away, slidin' halfway down the board.

Abby burst out laughin', and I joined in.
Jacob just threw his hands up. "This game's rigged."

"Or maybe you just ain't lucky," I grinned.

We kept playin', laughin' every time someone slid down, cheerin' when we caught a ladder.
It was the kind of fun that made you forget the rain outside—or that you were supposed to be rivals on the soccer field.

By the time Mr. Johnson called time, Abby won (though Jacob said it was luck), and I was laughin' so hard my sides hurt.

As we packed up the game, Jacob gave me a little nod, like he knew the score was settled... for now.

When Mr. Johnson dismissed us for lunch, my stomach was already rumblin'.
Indoor recess had been fun, but laughin' over Snakes and Ladders sure worked up an appetite.

As I grabbed my coat, I remembered—Mama didn't pack me a lunch today.
She said it'd get soggy in the rain, so I was buyin' lunch from the cafeteria instead.

That didn't bother me none—'cause Friday meant pizza day.

And not just any pizza—the rectangle one.
Cheese all bubbly, edges a little crisp, sittin' on that flimsy paper tray.
It was the best lunch the school ever made, or at least that's what all us kids thought.

I stood in line with Abby, the smell of pizza and warm bread hittin' me as we shuffled forward.

When I got my tray, everything was laid out just right:

Rectangle pizza—cheese-only, 'cause that's all they ever had.

Scoop of corn—kinda soggy, but I liked mixin' it with the pizza sometimes.

Peaches in syrup—sweet and cold, always slidin' around the tray.

Chocolate chip cookie—a little too hard on the edges, but good for dunkin' in milk.

Chocolate milk and orange juice—because I liked both, and nobody said I had to pick just one.

Abby grabbed her tray right behind me, and we found our usual spot near the middle of the room.
Jacob was already at his table with the other boys, still talkin' about the game earlier, braggin' like he'd won the World Cup.

I just rolled my eyes and focused on my pizza—dippin' the corner into the corn like I always did, even though Abby said it was gross.

"You're weird," she laughed, takin' a bite of her cookie first.

"Yeah, but it's good," I grinned, wipin' a little cheese off my chin.

"So, what you doin' this weekend?" Abby asked, swipin' a piece of corn to pop in her mouth.

I shrugged. "Dunno. Probably helpin' Papa with somethin'. Might go down by the creek again, see if I can catch that frog I missed."

She grinned. "You and those frogs."

"You love 'em too."

"Maybe," she said, grinnin' wider.

I was about to say somethin' back when—

CRACK-BOOM!

A flash of light lit up the windows, and not even two seconds later, the loudest clap of thunder exploded right over the school.
It shook the walls, made the trays rattle, and sent a jolt straight through my chest.

I screamed— as well as all the girls in the room and even some of the boys let out a scream.
Abby clutched her milk carton, eyes wide.
Jacob's table tried to act tough, but I saw a few of 'em flinchin' too.

After a moment, the noise died down, and the lunchroom settled back into nervous chatter.

"Dang," Abby breathed, laughin' a little, but you could tell she was still shook up.
"That was close."

"Real close," I said, peekin' out the window, but all I could see was gray rain and trees bendin' in the wind.

Mama always said when thunder came right after the lightnin', it meant the storm was right on top of you.

"That hit somewhere near the playground, I bet," I said, pointin' toward the window.

"I wasn't scared!" Jacob called over from his table, "Y'all act like you never heard thunder before!"

But he wasn't foolin' anybody.
We all saw his eyes go big when it hit, and the flush on his face told the real story.

"Don't act tough, Jacob. You screamed louder than me," I shot back, tryin' to sound brave now that the moment passed.

Some kids laughed, and Jacob just shook his head, but I saw his grin peekin' through.
It was **like that thunder reset everythin'—the boys versus girls stuff, the braggin' about soccer—it didn't matter for a second.
We were all just kids caught in a storm.

Before we even caught our breath from that thunder, the lights flickered—once, twice—then everything went dark.

The whole cafeteria fell into this weird kind of hush—nobody screamed, but you could feel everyone holdin' their breath.

For a second, it was just the sound of rain beatin' against the windows, and the low murmur of voices startin' to bubble up.

"What happened?" Abby whispered, leanin' in close.

"Power's out," I said, even though it was pretty obvious.

Jacob's voice came from a few tables over.
"It'll come back in a minute. Always does."

But it didn't.
The chatter got louder, but Mr. Johnson came into the cafeteria, his voice steady and calm like always.

"Alright, everyone—stay put. Just keep eatin'. The power will be back on soon."

I nodded to myself, like he was talkin' just to me.
If Mr. Johnson wasn't worried, then I wasn't gonna be worried either.

I took another bite of my pizza, even though it had cooled off a bit now.
Didn't matter—still good.
I scooped up the last of my corn and finished my peaches, sippin' my chocolate milk while the room buzzed quietly with everyone wonderin' how long we'd be stuck like this.

Abby was still pickin' at her cookie.
"This ever happen before?" she asked, her voice low.

"Once or twice," I said, thinkin' back.
"But it always came back quick... Usually."

We sat there a little longer, but the lights stayed off, and the hum of the coolers and drink machines stayed quiet.

That's when the teachers started talkin' to each other in that serious, grown-up way—tryin' to sound calm, but you could tell they were figurin' stuff out.

Whispers started spreadin' through the room.
Some kids said we might get sent home, and that idea made my chest flutter with a little excitement.

Finally, Mr. Johnson clapped his hands to get everyone's attention.

"Alright, students. We're going to be dismissing early. The power's not coming back on anytime soon. The buses will start lining up soon, so stay seated until your class is called."

A ripple of excitement ran through the cafeteria—even though it was still rainin', gettin' out early was like winnin' a prize.

I grinned at Abby, and she grinned back.

"Guess we get a long weekend," she said.

I leaned back in my seat, wipin' my hands on my napkin, feelin' full and kinda happy.
Sometimes, a little storm wasn't so bad after all.

The bus pulled up our long dirt driveway, tires kickin' up little splashes from all the rain puddles left behind.
The sky was still gray, but the worst of the storm had passed, leavin' the air feelin' damp and heavy.

I stepped off, my feet squishin' in the soft, wet ground, and I could already see Mama standin' on the porch, wipin' her hands on her apron like she always did when she saw me comin' home.

Except this time, her face scrunched up in confusion.

"You're home early, baby," she called out, steppin' down onto the porch steps.
"What happened?"

I hurried up to her, wipin' my damp hands on my overalls.
"The power went out at school," I said, tryin' to sound serious like Mr. Johnson had, but it just made me grin.
"They had to let us out early."

Mama raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'll be. Storm must've hit worse over there than it did here."

She looked me over real quick—mamas always do that, like checkin' to see if you brought the rain inside with you—then gave a little nod.

"Well, you're home now," she said, pullin' me in for a quick hug.
"You hungry? Or did they at least feed you before they kicked you out?"

I laughed, huggin' her back.
"I had pizza day—rectangle pizza, Mama. The good kind."

Mama rolled her eyes but smiled. "Lord, y'all love that cardboard pizza. Come on inside. You can help me peel taters for supper."

I kicked off my damp shoes by the door and followed her into the kitchen, feelin' glad to be home early—like I'd won a few extra hours of freedom.

As we stepped into the kitchen, I wiped my hands on my overalls again, grinnin' up at Mama.

"What are we makin'? Frog leg soup?"
I asked, hopin' real hard.

Mama stopped mid-step, turnin' to give me that look—you know, the one mamas give when you've said somethin' wild.

"Lord, no," she said, shakin' her head but smilin' all the same.
"We're havin' SOS."

I groaned, throwin' my head back like the world was endin'.

"Same Old Slop?!"
I said it like it was the worst punishment ever, even though I kinda liked it.

Mama laughed, wavin' a wooden spoon at me.
"You hush, now. You know you love it. Hamburger gravy over mashed taters—it's good eatin'."

I tried to keep my pretend pout, but my stomach had other plans—it let out a growl loud enough that even Mama heard.

"Mhm, that's what I thought," she said, goin' back to the stove.
"Now, grab that peeler and get to work on these taters."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, grinnin' as I pulled a chair over to the counter.
I knew supper was gonna be good—Same Old Slop and all.

I grabbed the peeler and one of the big ol' taters from the pile Mama set on the counter.
The peel curled off in thin ribbons, droppin' into the bowl like little brown snakes.

Before I knew it, I was hummin'—then singin', kinda makin' it up as I went:

♫
"Taters in the pot, taters in the pan,
Mash 'em up with butter, feed 'em to a man.
Taters when it's rainin', taters in the sun,
Eat 'em up for supper, taters sure are fun!"
♫

Mama snorted out a laugh, tryin' not to spill the gravy she was stirrin'.

"What on earth are you singin'?" she asked, wipin' tears from the corner of her eye.

I grinned, feelin' mighty proud of myself.

"It's my tater song, Mama. I'm writin' it right now."

"Well, keep goin', then," she said, still smilin' as she added salt to the gravy.
"This is better than the radio."

So I kept on, makin' up verses as I peeled:

♫
"Taters with some gravy, taters in a stew,
Fry 'em in the skillet, crispy just for you.
Taters with my Mama, taters with my Pop,
Eat 'em all together—taters never stop!"
♫

Mama shook her head, laughin' so hard she had to step away from the stove for a minute.

"You're gonna have me singin' 'taters never stop' in my sleep!"

We both laughed, the kitchen feelin' warmer than ever,
like the rain outside couldn't touch us in here—inside where the taters, the gravy, and the singin' made everythin' feel right.

But we weren't just stoppin' with taters.

"Hand me that flour, sugar," Mama said, noddin' toward the canister on the shelf.

"We makin' biscuits?" I perked up, my eyes lightin' up.

"Of course we are," she said. "Can't have SOS without biscuits."

I grinned wide—Mama's biscuits were the best in the world.
Fluffy, buttery, and perfect for soakin' up every bit of gravy.

While the taters boiled, and the gravy simmered, Mama set to work mixin' the dough—flour, buttermilk, and lard.
Her hands moved quick, like she'd done it a thousand times (because she had).

I watched her cut the biscuits with an old tin can, pressin' them onto a greased pan.

"What else we havin'?" I asked, wipin' my hands on a towel.

Mama thought for a second, then shrugged.
"I pulled some okra from the freezer—gonna fry that up. And I got some greens, too."

Fried okra. Collard greens. Biscuits. Mashed taters. Hamburger gravy.

I felt my stomach growl so loud Mama heard it.

"You better save that hunger for supper," she said, grinnin' at me.

"I will," I promised—but my mouth was already waterin'.

Just as Mama slid the biscuits into the oven, and I was mashin' the taters with butter and a splash of milk, we heard the low rumble of Papa's truck rollin' up the driveway.

I peeked out the window, seein' him park under the big oak tree like he always did.
But he was home earlier than usual, and it made my heart skip a little—like it always did when he showed up before I expected.

"Papa's home!" I called out, wipin' my hands on my overalls.

Mama glanced at the clock.
"Well, that's good timin'," she said. "Food's just about ready."

The front door creaked open, and Papa stepped in, shakin' the rain off his hat.

"Somethin' smells good in here," he said, grinnin' as he hung his hat by the door.

I rushed over, huggin' him around the waist.

"You're home early, Papa!"

He ruffled my hair, his hand rough and warm.
"Boss let us out after lunch. Storm slowed everythin' down anyway. Figured I'd come home, see what my girls were up to."

"Well, we've been cookin' up a storm in here too," Mama said, wipin' her hands on her apron.
"You're just in time."

Papa sniffed the air, lookin' around like he could already taste it.

"That SOS?" he asked, his eyes twinklin'.

I groaned.
"Same Old Slop."

He laughed.
"That's the best kind of slop I ever had."

Mama shook her head, but she was smilin' too.

"Got biscuits, fried okra, and greens, too," she added, pointin' toward the stove.

Papa rubbed his hands together.
"Now that's a meal."

The oven timer dinged, and Mama pulled out the golden biscuits, the smell of butter fillin' the whole kitchen.

We set the table quick—plates, forks, sweet tea—and gathered around.

Papa bowed his head, and we all joined hands like we always did.

"Lord, we thank You for this food, for the hands that made it, and for bringin' us all together safe today. We ask You to bless our home, and our family, and keep watch over Emily's wrist—help it heal up right. Amen."

"Amen," Mama and I said together.

We all dug in, and the food was everything I hoped it would be.
The gravy was thick and savory, soakin' into the mashed taters just right.
The biscuits were fluffy, and the fried okra had that perfect crunch.
Every bite felt like a hug from the inside.

But then—disaster struck.

I shoved a forkful of taters into my mouth too quick, tryin' to catch up with Papa talkin' 'bout his day, and my tongue got caught right between my teeth.

Hard.

I froze, wincin' as the pain shot through my mouth, and before I could stop it... it just slipped out.

"Damn it!"

The room went dead quiet.

My eyes went wide—real wide—and my fork clattered onto the plate.

Mama's head whipped around so fast you'd think I said I'd set the house on fire.
Papa blinked—his fork halfway to his mouth—like he wasn't sure he'd heard right.

I clamped my hands over my mouth, cheeks burnin' hotter than the stove.

"I—I bit my tongue," I mumbled, voice muffled behind my fingers.

Mama's mouth pressed into a line, but her eyes had that mix of shock and tryin' not to laugh.

Papa set his fork down, lookin' at me real serious, but there was a twitch at the corner of his lips too.

"Emily Ann," he said, usin' my middle name so I knew I was right on the edge of trouble,
"We don't talk like that at this table."

"I know," I rushed out, tears prickin' my eyes—part from the pain, part from embarrassment.
"It just—it hurt so bad—it jumped out before I could stop it."

Mama sighed, wipin' her hands on her napkin.

"Well... let's just say you learned somethin' tonight," she said, givin' me a pointed look.
"You keep bitin' that tongue, and it's liable to get you in more trouble than just hurtin'."

Papa leaned back a bit in his chair, his eyes kind but firm.

"What does Matthew twelve-thirty-six say?" he asked, his voice calm but expectin'.

I looked down at my plate, but the words were right there in my heart—from all those times we'd read together.

"I tell you, on the day of judgment people will give account for every careless word they speak," I said, my voice soft but sure.

Papa nodded slowly, his expression easin' up some.

"That's right. Words got power, baby girl. Even when you're hurtin'. Especially then."

I nodded back, feelin' the knot of shame in my chest loosen just a little.

"Next time, you just say 'ouch,'" he added, his lips twitchin' like he was holdin' back a grin.
"That works just fine."

"Yes, sir," I said.

Mama took a sip of her sweet tea, lookin' between us like she was glad it was settled.

"Well, now that we've all had a lesson with supper," she said, smilin' just a little,
"Let's finish before it gets cold."

We all picked our forks back up, the warmth returnin' to the table, but I held onto Papa's words—about power, about thinkin' before speakin'.

And about how I'd probably never forget Matthew twelve-thirty-six for as long as I lived.

The rain had slowed to nothin' more than a gentle tap on the leaves, like the earth was takin' a deep breath after the storm.

Papa grabbed his coffee mug and, to my surprise, his guitar—the one he kept tucked in the corner of the livin' room. He didn't play often, but when he did, it always felt special. Like it meant somethin'.

We settled on the porch, me sittin' cross-legged, watchin' him tune the strings with that easy patience he had with everythin'.

I was glad—real glad—he hadn't given me a woopin' for that naughty word at dinner. I knew plenty of kids that would've gotten one, no questions asked.

"You ain't mad at me, are you, Papa?" I asked, my voice small.

He gave the E string a little twist, plucked it, nodded, then looked at me with that steady gaze.

"Nah, I ain't mad. I know it slipped. But you remember what I told you, right?"

"Yes, sir," I said quickly. "No using bad words."

He smiled, soft-like. "That's my girl."

Then he started pickin'—real light, just a slow, easy melody that drifted out into the damp air. It wasn't a song I knew, but it felt like one that belonged there, with the frogs singin' back from the swamp.

I leaned my head against the porch post, eyes half-closed, listenin' to Papa's guitar, the rain, and the world settlin' down for the night.

After a few minutes, he started hummin'—deep and low, like the song was more for him than me. The kind of hum that made you feel warm inside, like you belonged right where you were.

"Papa... how'd you learn to play like that?" I asked, my voice quiet so I wouldn't mess up the moment.

He kept strummin', but he smiled.

"My granddaddy—he taught me. Same guitar, same porch, not so different from this evenin' right here."

I blinked, lookin' at the worn wood of the guitar. It looked old—well-loved—but I never knew it had been Hank's. That made it feel different, like I was hearin' somethin' passed down through the family.

"He was good with his hands—buildin', fishin', pickin' strings. Said music was just another kind of buildin'. You put the right notes together, and you make somethin' folks can feel."

I thought about that as he played. I liked the sound of that—makin' somethin' folks could feel.

"You think... you could teach me sometime?" I asked, feelin' a little shy.

Papa paused, lookin' down at me, then nodded.

"I'd like that, Emily. We'll start soon—once your wrist is better."

I smiled, tuckin' that promise away in my heart like a secret treasure.

We sat out there a good while, not sayin' much more. Just listenin'—to the guitar, the frogs, the quiet. Every now and then, Mama peeked out the window, smilin' at us like she knew it was one of those moments you hold onto.

When the rain finally stopped, and the sky turned that deep, dark blue, Papa let the last note hang in the air before settin' the guitar aside.

"Time to get ready for bed, baby girl," he said, his voice soft.

"Yes, sir."

I stood up, stretchin', but before I went inside, I leaned over and hugged him—tight.

"Love you, Papa."

He hugged me back, his hand restin' gentle on the back of my head.

"Love you too, Emily."

I went inside feelin' safe—like nothin' bad could touch me as long as Papa was there.

And maybe... someday, I'd be strummin' that same guitar, sittin' on this same porch—tellin' my kids about their great-great-granddaddy Hank.

But that was a long ways off. For now, I just wanted to get better at my zero times tables and figure out what happened next in Matilda.

Tomorrow was a new day.

And I was ready for it.