I loved him too much to do that to him. And I knew my father would wake up—I knew he would—and tell everyone the truth of it. By then it wouldn’t matter that Samuel had chased a rabbit into harm’s way. My father would be well again. My mother would smile again. And everything would be all right again. I knew it would. So I said, “No, Samuel, I didn’t see what happened. One minute, Daddy was cutting the tree, and I was . . . dragging some branches into a pile. And then the tree fell. I didn’t mean to knock you down, Samuel. I was running to get help and I didn’t mean to knock you down.”

He frowned at me for a long moment, and I hoped that he wouldn’t work too hard to unravel that thread. To sort out the jumble of what had happened.

“You were in the way, weren’t you?” my sister said.

At first, I thought she was talking to Samuel, but then I realized she was looking at me. Talking to me.

Esther wasn’t a mean girl. But she never tried to be more gentle than she was. And it was clear that she needed a reason. An explanation. Someone to blame.

My mother looked at me, too, waiting for an answer. She wasn’t angry like Esther was, but it was clear that she had no extra space in her heart just then for anything except my father.

Part of me wanted to tell them that it was Samuel’s fault, if a little boy could be blamed for such a thing. But when I thought of saying the words, I felt sick and sad. When I thought of Samuel someday learning that he had drawn his father into this disaster—perhaps even into death—I felt even more terrible.

And I knew how Esther would feel—she who should have been watching Samuel.

Which was when I decided that it would be worse to pass the blame than to shoulder it.

If I’d learned anything from the mountain—and from my father—it was that I felt stronger and happier if I was able to do a hard thing and do it well.

So I kept silent. And they took my silence as a confession.

—

It was difficult to tell, as I lay in the darkness remembering, my face wet with cold tears, whether I had slept and woken or never slept at all.

Esther was quiet but for the slow tempo of her breath. Samuel sighed and murmured in his dreams.

I slipped from my bed and out of the cabin, closing the door behind me without a sound.

The trees wore gowns of starlight.

The dew was cold and luscious on my bare feet.

From somewhere up-mountain, an owl sounded lonely. Forlorn. Beautiful.