Finn stepped out into the dewy dawn. The yard, the house, the mountain: all were still. She liked the feeling of being the first person awake. It was a comforting kind of solitude, like listening to a song with your headphones on. It was also the time of day when, generally speaking, her echoes were least active, when her memories were hers and only hers.

In contrast, the flock of starlings overhead were hungry for attention, flitting from branch to branch, sharing worms and gossip (both juicy). Finn watched them and wondered what had happened to her pigeon, Chris Five. She hoped he was okay on his own and hadn’t ended up in some street magician’s hat with a deck of playing cards and a chain of multicolored scarves.

Finn turned in the direction of the main house and spotted Rowan slipping out the back door carrying a small trowel. Finn waved, but Rowan must have not seen her, because she darted across the yard and into the forest without so much as a glance in Finn’s direction. Why is she sneaking out this early in the morning? Finn wondered and decided to follow.

When she reached the bank of trees through which she’d seen Rowan disappear, she noticed a narrow trail leading up the hillside. It wasn’t an official trail but likely one that had been carved out over many years by many pairs of boots. Even the bulbous tree roots that protruded from the earth had been worn smooth in places like river rocks. Without hesitation, Finn began to climb.

She moved as quietly as possible, not wanting to frighten Rowan before she’d had a chance to announce herself. The only noise she made was the occasional swish of her calves against the fern fronds. The vegetation was strangled, jungle-like, but that only made the blazed trail more obvious, like the first set of tracks in newly fallen snow. Finn ducked under a half-fallen spruce that looked like it had been the victim of a lightning strike, charred and peeled down the middle like a banana. Several of the surrounding trees had burns as well from the ensuing fire, although the damage was minimal.

The trail hooked sharply to the left. Then Finn spotted Rowan crouching in a small clearing at the base of an enormous maple whose branches were dripping in tree moss. She paused, unsure of how to approach, then realized what Rowan was doing. She was digging. The girl drove the trowel she was holding into the dirt, then deposited a small clod of soil on the ground next to her. There were dozens of holes like this one surrounding the tree, not more than a few inches deep and a foot across. It was like she’d stepped into a gopher colony.

Finn hazarded a step forward. “Hey.”