“Is it true, what they say about the road?” She (she, she, she) had drunk half her venti water, then poured the rest between her chest and the rock. She was thick under all the thick mud. He could almost see her.

She slid up a bit on the rock.

“What do they say?” he asked.

“That the wizard’s crows watch you at every moment.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s true.”

“Even in your houses?”

“Yeah, I guess so. I don’t really think about it.”

“How could you not think about that?”

“They’re just crows,” he said. “You get used to it.”

She shuddered. “They’re not just crows. They’re like . . . flying eyeballs.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like the wizard can watch all of us at once.”

“I suppose.”

“And what’s he going to see if he’s looking at me? Me, sleeping? Me, making a sandwich?”

“So you like being watched by a dark wizard?”

“We don’t know that he’s dark.”

“I mean, his armies of crows seem like a clue . . .”

“Look, I don’t like the crows. They’re just . . . It’s such a small price to pay to live on the road.”

“I’ll take your word for it, Adam.”

“Oh, listen to you!” He was flustered. “I wish I knew your name—I’d win more of these arguments if I knew your name!”

That made her laugh. (He did make her laugh. At least once every day.) “Fine,” she said, “the crows are good. The crows are grand. If they see you choking, they can caw for help.”

“That’s true, you know.”

“So the crows aren’t the worst part of living on the road. What is?”

“What do you mean?”

“What’s the very worst part of living on the road?”

“We weren’t talking about that.”

“We are now.” She’d finished her pink drink, too, and was chewing on the ice.

“I guess, the worst part . . .” It wasn’t good to talk about the bad parts. (And not because the crows were listening as well as watching.) (Not just because of that.) “You shouldn’t focus on the bad things,” he said. “Because you draw them toward you. Happiness is about focusing on good things and drawing those things toward you.”

She closed her eyes tight. She wrinkled her nose. Bits of dust fell on her cheeks.

“What—” he started.

“Shhhh!” she shushed.

His voice dropped to a whisper: “What are you doing?”

So did hers: “I’m focusing on good things.”

“Like what?”

“Rain.”

“Rain?”

“Good things,” she whispered. “Rain. Mud. You.”

His heart jumped. (He had a heart.) “Me?”

She closed her eyes even tighter. “You . . . coming back tomorrow, with Starbucks.”

“Behold the power of positive thinking!” she shouted before he was even over the hedge. He’d worn a gap in the shrub there and beaten a path down to the riverbed.