And I know she’s trying to make me feel better, but all I can think is that I wish she were Gram.

6

The next morning, I wake up when the light is still thin and silver. It’s one of the last days of summer. I should go back to sleep.

But then yesterday comes rushing back to me, and I’m wide awake.

Right after she saw my spots, Mom called the doctor, who told her that she should make an appointment to see a dermatologist. Mom got one for next Friday.

“Dr. Crenshaw also told me that we shouldn’t worry in the meantime,” she said, squeezing my shoulders.

But I could feel Mom hovering over me all night. Worrying.

Half of me wants to pick up my computer and do more research. The other half is itching to go stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, examine every inch of my body for more spots.

“Come on, Boomer,” I say instead, nudging him awake. “We’re going for a walk.”

The air is cool outside. It’s still so early that we have the village and the meadows to ourselves.

The only other person I see is the Apple Lady, wearing her usual headphones and carrying a basket away from the orchard. I don’t know her real name. I only really ever see her going to church on Sundays and walking around the village in the morning. It seems like she usually comes out to pick apples from the orchard or wild blackberries from the brambles that grow along the edges of the meadow. It must have been apples the first time I saw her, though, because I’ve always thought of her as the Apple Lady.

As we pass her, she looks right through me without saying hello.

That’s normal for her. I asked Gram about her once, and she said some people just keep themselves to themselves. But I bet it gets lonely, keeping yourself to yourself.

Boomer races up to her, wagging his tail and nipping at her apple basket. She flinches, lifting her basket higher.

“Sorry,” I mutter, pulling him away. I push Boomer forward, and he keeps galloping right past the end of the meadow and into the trees. I run behind him, calling his name, but he’s probably already halfway to the glade.

I hesitate for a moment. The Spinney is my favorite place in the world, but the day of Gram’s funeral was the first time I’ve been in a while.

Today, though, I feel drawn there again. I need a distraction from my own skin. And besides, I have to find Boomer. So I slip under the barbed wire and into the woods.

From the meadow, the Spinney looks narrow—nothing more than a few rows of trees. But once you get inside, it feels vast. Like the Goldengrove, which is enchanted and grows bigger the farther in you go.