Every afternoon that week, Boomer and I run through the village and down to the meadows after school, always heading for the Spinney. On Thursday, we race Old Joe’s tractor as it rumbles down High Street. It’s not much of a race, to be honest.

“How’s school going?” Old Joe calls as we slow down by the tractor cab. “What grade is it again?”

“Seventh,” I say, tugging on Boomer’s leash to get him to slow down. “And it’s good.”

A car honks. There’s a long line of them behind Old Joe. He grins at me and winks.

“Seventh grade is a head-scratcher, that’s for sure,” he says. “You be good now. Make your gram proud.”

“I will.”

Then he kicks the tractor into full speed, by which I mean about ten miles an hour. Boomer and I peel off past the orchard, where families are picking apples from the trees, then through the meadows and into the Spinney. We rush down the hill toward the glade and the sycamore hollow to see if my pen pal has written the next chapter of our story.

Every day, the carpet of leaves on the forest floor has grown thicker and brighter, and today I actually slip on them and go sliding down the slope. When I get to the bottom, Boomer pounces on me and starts drenching my face with kisses. For the first time since Gram died, I laugh so hard my stomach hurts.

There’s this part of The World at the End of the Tunnel—after Sarah and Jack are taken in by the clover elves and have started training to defeat the troll army—when Sarah suddenly realizes that she can’t remember the last time she thought about home.

Did things like bedtimes and hot baths and setting the table for supper still exist somewhere? When Sarah thought of such things, it was as if she were recalling details of a long-ago dream.

When I step into the Spinney—or roll into it, for that matter—I feel the same way. Like the rest of my world doesn’t exist at all. Like the forest is the only thing that’s real.

Even though I didn’t say it to Fina, I think that’s the other reason I love The World at the End of the Tunnel so much. I always felt like Sarah, Jack, and I all shared this secret. They had the Goldengrove, and I had the Spinney.

Every day this week, I’ve checked the journal for a new chapter, and every day, there’s been nothing. It’s been almost two weeks since I wrote about Ivy seeing the woman in white leaving Poppy Cottage.

I thought it would be a good cliff-hanger, but maybe my pen pal doesn’t agree. Or maybe they have writer’s block. Or maybe they’ve forgotten about the story altogether.