“I can’t explain it!” he shouted at her. (He’d never really shouted at her.) “It’s part of living on the road! It’s a small price to pay!”

“Okay, Adam.”

“You live under a bridge!”

“I know.”

“You wouldn’t understand!”

“Fine, I don’t understand!”

He stood up; he scrambled up the side of the dry riverbed. “I’m going to get coffee.”

“Is Starbucks even open? The Tragedy—”

“Starbucks is always open!”

“I’m sorry I shouted at you,” Adam said.

She was lying in the darkest part of the mud. If she thought he couldn’t see her, she was wrong. He’d gotten really good at seeing her.

“I brought Frappuccinos . . .”

He walked to the edge of the riverbed and set down a drink carrier and an armful of snacks. There were chocolate-dipped graham crackers. And bagel balls with cream cheese in the middle. And special coffee-fighting breath mints.

Then he sat back from the pile. In case she didn’t want to come anywhere near him. “I got Java Chip and Midnight Mint Mocha. I’d pick the mint.”

She was lying on her back. He could see the mud rising and cracking with her breath.

“The worst part of living on the road,” he said, as evenly as he could, “isn’t the crows. Or the Collapses—you’ve probably heard about the Collapses. It isn’t even the Tragedies . . .”

Her eyes were closed.

“The worst part of living on the road,” he said, not very evenly, “is that you can’t fall down. If you fall down, you fall off.” No, that wasn’t true. He’d never lied to her. “If you fall down, they push you off. If someone falls, we push—”

Adam leaned forward. His elbows were on his knees, his head was hanging. He was—he couldn’t stop—

He heard her dragging herself through what was left of the sludge. A heavy slither.

He didn’t look up. He didn’t want her to see him like this.

She pulled herself between his ankles.

She rested her head on the ground beneath his tears.

“There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Coffee first,” she said, “then talk.”

He was hurrying down the path, skidding on the gravel. He was late. He’d been getting something ready.

She was in the middle of the riverbed, where there was still a little mud. Her arms were reaching out to him. “Remember yesterday when I said I don’t need coffee? That was wrong—I do need coffee. You can never stop bringing me coffee, Adam. I’ve just cursed you, sorry.”

He held out two iced drinks. “I didn’t think bridge trolls could curse people.”

She took the macchiato. “Hmm. I guess you’re right—that’s fairies, isn’t it? Why do fairies get all the fun?”

“I’m sorry I’m late.”