“So, where did you live before this?” I asked after another few seconds of silence. “Before you moved?”

“Not far away,” she said. “North. Near Kennesaw.”

“Oh,” I said. “Cool.” Even though it wasn’t especially.

“Yeah.”

She kept looking at me silently. And even though it didn’t seem like she was expecting anything, I tried again. “I’ve lived here since I was a baby. On Loring Street, near the end of Woodland. Over that way.” I pointed vaguely in the direction of home.

“Nice,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder and peering into the trees. As though she had mutant superpowers and could see my house, a half mile away. “It’s pretty, this neighborhood. The houses are so cute, and I like all the big front porches. It feels almost like the country here, even though we’re still in Atlanta.”

“Yeah,” I said. “The houses are . . . old.”

For a magical life-changing moment, there was nothing magical or life-changing about this conversation.

It was her turn to say something, but she didn’t. I thought she probably wanted me to go away and was giving me a polite signal. But at the same time, she was smiling in that odd, calm, encouraging way.

When I couldn’t stand the silence any longer, I glanced all around me—up at the canopy of thick trees, then back up the hill behind me, and finally down the creek, past the new girl on the rock, into the jungle of kudzu I’d need to push through to get home. I felt strangely locked in that moment, as if under some sort of spell, a power stronger than my own two feet.

At last I said, “Well, I guess I’ll go now.”

“Okay,” she said pleasantly enough.

“Okay,” I repeated.

“Have a nice day,” she said, waving. Which people said all the time, and probably didn’t really mean, but I swear, in that moment, she sounded like she really meant it. Like she genuinely hoped I’d have an especially nice day.

“You too!” I replied as I began to move at last, skirting around the rock and trudging a few feet down the creek bed, away. Feeling . . .

What? Disappointed. But more than that. And for some reason, I just couldn’t walk away without even knowing her name. I turned back, to find her staring after me, no longer smiling. She had a different look on her face now. Watchful—her eyes were big and solemn. But she also seemed a little . . . lost. Like she wanted to ask me something too.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m . . . Leah. Leah Davidson. In case we ever see each other again. Here, maybe. Or around, since you’re in the neighborhood now, or . . . whatever. Just so you know. I’m Leah.”

She nodded slowly, as if she understood something I wasn’t sure I’d said. She looked strangely serious when she replied, “Okay, Leah. And I’m Jasper.”