I slide one hand under the baby robin and lift it carefully. It blinks at me, eyes shiny. Its heartbeat thrums under my fingertips. Taking advantage of the slope of the roof, glad it’s not too steep, I duck under the branches, water dripping on my shoulders, and place the bird back in the nest. Its head flops onto the twigs. Perhaps I’ve killed it. Tully will never forgive me.

I sidestep down the roof. “Stay on your hands and knees and crawl backward to the ladder. I’ll be right behind you.”

“I told you,” she says, her voice shaking, “I’m afraid to move.”

“I’ve been lifting weights—I’ll catch you if you fall.” I’m not nearly as confident as I sound, but she doesn’t need to know that. “C’mon, you hate my guts. You don’t want to have a meltdown in front of me.”

With my hands—which still hurt—flat to the shingles, my feet search for the first rung of the ladder. “Okay, start backing up now.”

“I can’t!”

“Yes, you can.” I duck as the robin does another kamikaze dive. Protecting its young. What a concept. “Tully, until you leave the roof, the robins can’t feed their kids. You want two deaths on your conscience?”

The only answer is a faint moan.

“How about if I hold your ankles?” I say. “Would that help?”

Her shoulders are rigid, her nails digging into the shingles. “Can’t hurt,” she mumbles.

She’s wearing denim cutoffs and faded pink sneakers. No socks. Her skin is cool, damp from the rain. Bones jut under my palms; blue veins wander like rivers.

With a click like a camera shutter, I fall in love with Tully Langille’s ankles.

“Take it slow,” I say, “little by little,” and wonder who I’m talking to.

Her knee skids on the wet roof. She gives a strangled gasp. “It’s okay, Tully, it’s okay,” I say, just like I talk to Cassie after Floyd’s done his thing. “A little farther. Then I’ll guide your foot to the first rung.”

She’s doing her best. Respect others ... For the first time in my life, I’m beginning to understand what that means.

She edges one knee over the gutter. I place her sneaker firmly on the rung. “Put your hands to the top of the ladder, one by one ... that’s it.”

Her second foot anchors itself on a lower rung. I go down a couple of rungs, then bring the first foot down one. Step-by-step we descend the ladder, until I say, “I’m on the ground now—not much longer.”

As she takes the last two steps, I’m holding the sides of the ladder firm, caging her in. She’s grabbing for breath, her body so close that her hair brushes my chin; it smells like Della’s flowers.

I want to stand like this forever.