You retreat down into your seat so that you’re almost prone. You look surprised, taken aback.

“Pearl, what is it?”

You lift your head slowly and peek back through the passenger-side window, and it sounds like you might be crying.

“Pearl,” I say again.

You look at me, and now the disbelief, the amazement, is clear. When you talk, your words come in whispers.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask.

“Tell you what?”

“It’s so sad here. So sad.”

You turn, facing straight ahead, and I experience a flash of memory, the quickest vision. I was approaching the bridge again but driving the other way. Leaving. Your father was only a couple weeks old, and he was in a kind of bassinet wedged into the floor space in front of the passenger seat. That was in the days before car seats. He was crying, his voice raspy and dry. And I was driving as fast as I could.

The trees had felt heavy, and they leaned in over us as we approached the bridge, but your father and I made it into the clear air, rising up onto the bridge. As we entered into that bright daylight, the sun streaming in, I rolled down my window and felt the warm breeze, smelled the fresh air. Immediately, your father stopped crying and fell asleep.

In the rearview mirror I saw the forest churning, a green so dark it was nearly black, the shadows boiling up over the surface of the treetops. I felt an immense amount of relief that day, leaving Nysa with your father.

As if we had barely escaped.

We are across the bridge now, down among the trees, and I pull over onto the shoulder of the road, the trees so close you could roll down your window and stroke the bark if you wanted. But you are still crouched in your seat, quivering now, whispering to yourself.

“Pearl,” I whisper. “Pearl.” I reach over and hold on to your shoulder, and my touch seems to ground you somehow.

You reach up and hold my hand in place, swallow hard, and nod, saying to me without words—reassuring me—that you can do this thing.

“Pearl,” I say again, this time a little louder. “This place . . .”

I look away from you, across the street, into the woods on the other side. Everything is still. I see a single leaf fall from one of the trees and spin, fluttering, all the way down until it rests on the road. Nothing else moves. There are no cars.

“This is a good place,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m convincing myself. “It can be a lonely, dark place, yes. It can be sad. But there are good people here.” People who could take care of you, I want to say.

“It’s okay,” you say, your voice trembling. “It’s okay, Grampy. I know.”

“It’s kind of scary,” I admit. “But that’s probably because you grew up in the city. You’re not used to these wide-open spaces, not yet. Or all the trees—they can crowd in on you sometimes, if you’re not familiar with them. But you’ll get there. You’ll love it, Pearl. I know you will. You’ll be playing in these trees soon. And there are streams and fields and even a beach. I’ll take you there. You’ll see.”