“And I’ll help you learn about the not-church ones,” his mother said as they started back down the path in the fast-falling darkness. “There are miracles happening all the time, all around us. And if anyone can find them, it’s you, my Wunder.”

They bought him a journal the very next day—black leather with silver-edged pages and the title he had chosen stamped on the cover in white:

THE MIRACULOUS

As the years passed, Wunder filled The Miraculous with stories—his own and those he collected—with interviews of neighbors, with newspaper articles, with verses from holy books, with quotes from philosophers that he didn’t fully understand.

And with every page, Wunder was full of the feeling that the world was wonderful, the feeling that he was not alone, the feeling that he was not just himself—not just Wunder Ellis—but something else too.

Something lighter, something brighter, something lifted.

He was filled with the heart-bird feeling.

So yes, Wunder Ellis had believed in miracles. He had really and truly believed.

Until the night before the funeral.

Chapter 2

On that night, the night before the funeral, Wunder still believed in miracles as he tried for the hundredth time to start the schoolwork he had missed over the last two weeks. His earth sciences book was open in front of him. It had been open for two hours, and in those hours, he had read the title of the chapter—“Trees of the World”—and he had stared at the pictures.

Live oak. Sacred fig. Yew. Ash.

Wunder stared at the pictures until branches and leaves and trunks blurred together, until greens and browns faded into a dark gray spot.

Then he closed the book.

He still believed in miracles as he said good night to his father, who was sitting on the living room couch, a blanket and pillow beside him. His father had spent the evening staring at papers of his own—not “Trees of the World” but hospital bills and bank statements and a list of expenses for the funeral that Wunder’s mother did not want to have. When Wunder said good night, his father reached out his hand, but he didn’t look up from the paper-strewn coffee table.

Wunder placed his hand in his father’s for a moment.

Then he let go and left the living room.

He still believed in miracles as he walked down the hallway, past his parents’ bedroom. The lights were off, the room was silent, and Wunder knew the door was still locked. His mother was inside. She had spent most of her time in her room since there was no longer any reason to spend most of her time in a hospital room.

Wunder paused. He pressed his hand to the door frame.

Then he went to his door, and he opened it.

And it was then, at that exact moment, that he stopped believing in miracles.

For the last five nights, Wunder had slept out on the couch. He had gone into his room only when necessary—to grab a new shirt, to put away his pillow.