“Hello, you,” he said, sitting down with a drink carrier.

“Hello, Adam.”

“I brought two Frappuccinos, and before you ask which one I’d pick for myself, they’re both caramel. Because I would pick caramel.”

“Hmm.” She stuck out her lower lip. (It wasn’t a surprise; he knew she had lips.) (It was still good, though.) “I like having a choice.”

He handed her a caramel Frappuccino. “But you always pick the one I like best.”

“That’s part of what makes it delicious! The microaggression.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Well, I brought you something else.” He took a venti cup of water from the drink carrier and dumped it on her.

She gasped.

It ran nearly-not-dirty streaks in her possibly black (possibly dark green?) (or a kind of brown?) hair.

And then she laughed more than he’d ever seen her laugh before. “You made me spill my Frappuccino!” she said, still laughing, tears burning tracks through the dried mud on her cheeks.

“You can have mine,” he said.

She took it. She drank it all. She licked the whipped cream out of the domed lid. Then she dropped the cup into the riverbed.

“Hey, give me that,” he said. “I’ll recycle it.”

“Oh, Adam.” She laughed until her cheeks were sticky.

He was lying on his back with his head in the dirt. He couldn’t even see her like this. There were crows circling overhead. It didn’t matter, there were always crows.

“Adam?”

He felt something tugging at his foot.

When he sat up, he saw that his shoelace was undone. She’d never touched him before. Or his shoelaces.

He raised himself up on his elbows to look at her. She’d pulled herself to the edge of the riverbed. He’d never seen her so far out of the mud. It cracked and puckered around her.

“Hey,” he said, “don’t do that.”

“What’s wrong?” Her face looked strained. All this effort seemed painful.

“Don’t do that,” he said. “Get back.”

She huddled back into the most fetid part of the riverbed. Away from him, away from her rock. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t bring coffee,” he said.

“It’s okay, I don’t need coffee. Tell me.”

Maybe he should just tell her. Maybe he could . . . “There was a Tragedy on the road today.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s okay,” he said. And it was okay. It would be okay. He was okay. “Tragedies just happen sometimes,” he said. (It was what people said after a Tragedy.)

“Yes,” she agreed. “Some things are unavoidable.”

“Yes,” he said. But that wasn’t true. “I mean, no. It’s not like that. Tragedies on the road happen even when they don’t have to.”

She was still looking at him. She was still confused.

“They could be avoided,” he explained. “But we don’t avoid them.”

“Why not?”