Today she was lying in the mud, with her head and arms on the rock, like it took too much effort to sit up any farther. “What’s the very best part of the road?” she asked.

The man—we may as well call him Adam, he already gave up his name—stopped to really think. Finally, he said, “The road goes everywhere you’d want to go. Everywhere you’d think of going. It never ends. And you’re never alone there. And everything you’d ever want is right there on the road.”

“That’s not the one best part,” she said. “That’s too many things.” “Fine,” he said, “okay—the best part of being on the road is that when you’re on it, it’s all that you can see.”

Her eyes were closed.

“That probably doesn’t make sense to you,” he said.

“No, it does.” She wrinkled her nose, and the mud on her face cracked.

“What is that?”

“Strawberry Açaí Refresher.”

“It’s pink!”

“It’s seasonal.”

“Well, hand it over, Adam. Don’t be shy.”

Adam still felt shy here. He handed her the drink and settled down on the riverbank. It still hadn’t rained—it never really rained, something to do with the road. He could sit much closer to her now without ruining his khakis.

“This is delicious,” she said. “Why didn’t you get one for yourself?”

“I’m cutting back,” he said.

“On Strawberry Açaí Refreshers?”

“On carbs, mostly.”

“Ah. Bridge trolls don’t really have to worry about carbs.”

“Lucky,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, “I’m so lucky.”

He laughed, uncomfortably. He didn’t really know what bridge trolls worried about; he was a little afraid to ask. (No, that’s not right—he wasn’t afraid, really. He just didn’t want to know.) “I wish I knew your name,” he said.

“What do you call me in your head?”

He blushed. “That’s presumptuous.”

She sipped loudly at her drink. It was already empty. “So much ice,” she murmured.

“She,” he said. “I call you she. Her.”

“Now who’s being presumptuous,” she said, her tongue hugging every round consonant. (Her tongue.)

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” she said. “You’re right. Lucky guess.” She tipped the ice down onto the mud, over what was surely her bottom half. “Do they sell water at Starbucks?”

“No,” he said.

She seemed disappointed. “Oh.”

“I mean, I guess they do sell bottled water, but they’ll just give you a cup of water if you ask. Filtered.”

“Oh.”

“I could bring you water tomorrow.”

“Instead of a pink drink?”

“I could bring you both. They have drink carriers.”