“Totally,” she said. “Treat yourself.” She looked up at him. The mud was sliding down her shoulders, clinging to her long hair. (Hair, too.) “Thank you,” she said, looking down at her coffee, “Adam.”

His stomach pitched. His face fell. “How . . . How do you know my name?”

She smiled. “It was written on the cup.”

“I . . . That’s not . . . I wasn’t supposed to tell you my name.”

“No,” she said, “it’s fine. You’re thinking of fairies.”

“And dwarves,” he said.

“Right, dwarves.”

“And elves.”

“But not bridge trolls,” she said. “Really, Adam, I’m, like, the only creature you’re safe giving your name to.”

He laughed. He was embarrassed. And relieved. (Though not completely.) “What about you?”

“I told you, I can’t hurt you.”

“What’s your name, I mean.”

“I can’t tell you that,” she said between sips. “Everyone knows you can’t trust princes.”

“I’m not a prince.”

He may as well be.

“Those aren’t your worst pants,” she said, tilting her head to the side to examine him.

“My worst pants are in the dryer,” he replied. “Vanilla or Cinnamon Dolce?”

“Which one do you like best?”

He handed her the Cinnamon Dolce. “I can’t stay too long, I’m running late.”

“What do you do up there?” she asked.

“I already told you,” he said.

“Not really . . .”

“What do you do down here?”

She shrugged, settling back into the mud with her latte. “Nothing useful.”

“That’s not true,” he said. “Sometimes you throw phones into the air.”

She tilted her head again. “You think I’m at my most useful when I’m being useful to you?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t know what to think.”

He didn’t.

“Tell me about the road,” she said one day. It was a beautiful February day. Sunny. Every day was sunny. Though some people said it would have to rain again, eventually.

“I love the road,” he said. “Everyone does.”

“Is it very smooth?”

“So smooth.”

“And wide?”

“So wide,” he said, smiling. “And it smells wonderful.”

“That’s very rude, Adam.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. I know what it smells like down here. I have a nose.” She did, in fact.

“And there are flowers by the road,” he said, “fewer than before—but still the best flowers. There are no flowers anywhere that you can’t see from the road.” He wished that she could see it.

“What’s the best part?” she asked.

“The best part?”

“The best part, besides the Starbucks.”

“I almost hate to tell you this, but there are so many Starbucks.”

She sighed and laid her head down on her rock. Sometimes, she’d sit up on the rock. He liked that. She looked more like a something then—and less like part of the mud.