Her eyes were closed.

  “That probably doesn’t make sense to you,” he said.

  “No, it does.” She wrinkled her nose, and the mud on her face cracked.

  “What is that?”

  “Strawberry Açaí Refresher.”

  “It’s pink!”

  “It’s seasonal.”

  “Well, hand it over, Adam. Don’t be shy.”

  Adam still felt shy here. He handed her the drink and settled down on the riverbank. It still hadn’t rained—it never really rained, something to do with the road. He could sit much closer to her now without ruining his khakis.

  “This is delicious,” she said. “Why didn’t you get one for yourself?”

  “I’m cutting back,” he said.

  “On Strawberry Açaí Refreshers?”

  “On carbs, mostly.”

  “Ah. Bridge trolls don’t really have to worry about carbs.”

  “Lucky,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m so lucky.”

  He laughed, uncomfortably. He didn’t really know what bridge trolls worried about; he was a little afraid to ask. (No, that’s not right—he wasn’t afraid, really. He just didn’t want to know.) “I wish I knew your name,” he said.

  “What do you call me in your head?”

  He blushed. “That’s presumptuous.”

  She sipped loudly at her drink. It was already empty. “So much ice,” she murmured.

  “She,” he said. “I call you she. Her.”

  “Now who’s being presumptuous,” she said, her tongue hugging every round consonant. (Her tongue.)

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Am I wrong?”

  “No,” she said. “You’re right. Lucky guess.” She tipped the ice down onto the mud, over what was surely her bottom half. “Do they sell water at Starbucks?”

  “No,” he said.

  She seemed disappointed. “Oh.”

  “I mean, I guess they do sell bottled water, but they’ll just give you a cup of water if you ask. Filtered.”

  “Oh.”

  “I could bring you water tomorrow.”

  “Instead of a pink drink?”

  “I could bring you both. They have drink carriers.”

  “Is it true, what they say about the road?” She (she, she, she) had drunk half her venti water, then poured the rest between her chest and the rock. She was thick under all the thick mud. He could almost see her.

  She slid up a bit on the rock.

  “What do they say?” he asked.

  “That the wizard’s crows watch you at every moment.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s true.”

  “Even in your houses?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. I don’t really think about it.”

  “How could you not think about that?”

  “They’re just crows,” he said. “You get used to it.”

  She shuddered. “They’re not just crows. They’re like . . . flying eyeballs.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not like the wizard can watch all of us at once.”

  “I suppose.”

  “And what’s he going to see if he’s looking at me? Me, sleeping? Me, making a sandwich?”

  “So you like being watched by a dark wizard?”

  “We don’t know that he’s dark.”

  “I mean, his armies of crows seem like a clue . . .”

  “Look, I don’t like the crows. They’re just . . . It’s such a small price to pay to live on the road.”

  “I’ll take your word for it, Adam.”

  “Oh, listen to you!” He was flustered. “I wish I knew your name—I’d win more of these arguments if I knew your name!”

  That made her laugh. (He did make her laugh. At least once every day.) “Fine,” she said, “the crows are good. The crows are grand. If they see you choking, they can caw for help.”

  “That’s true, you know.”

  “So the crows aren’t the worst part of living on the road. What is?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What’s the very worst part of living on the road?”

  “We weren’t talking about that.”

  “We are now.” She’d finished her pink drink, too, and was chewing on the ice.

  “I guess, the worst part . . .” It wasn’t good to talk about the bad parts. (And not because the crows were listening as well as watching.) (Not just because of that.) “You shouldn’t focus on the bad things,” he said. “Because you draw them toward you. Happiness is about focusing on good things and drawing those things toward you.”

  She closed her eyes tight. She wrinkled her nose. Bits of dust fell on her cheeks.

  “What—” he started.

  “Shhhh!” she shushed.

  His voice dropped to a whisper: “What are you doing?”

  So did hers: “I’m focusing on good things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Rain.”

  “Rain?”

  “Good things,” she whispered. “Rain. Mud. You.”

  His heart jumped. (He had a heart.) “Me?”

  She closed her eyes even tighter. “You . . . coming back tomorrow, with Starbucks.”

  “Behold the power of positive thinking!” she shouted before he was even over the hedge. He’d worn a gap in the shrub there and beaten a path down to the riverbed.

  “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?”

  “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.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to keep coming. That wasn’t a real curse.”

  “I know. I come because I want to come.”

  “Good.” She started to burrow back into her patch of muck.

  “Wait—” He caught her by the wrist. (It was undoubtedly a wrist.)

  Her eyes whipped up. Her lips pulled back. She hissed.

  Adam let go—but he didn’t look away. He sat down in the mud with her. “Please wait. I want to talk to you . . . This is where I would say your name if I knew it. For emphasis.”

  “So noted,” she said. She was still sort of hissing.

  “I would say your name, and then I would say—I come here every day, because I want to come here. Because I want to see you.”

  “I know that. Adam.”

  “You do?”

  “Well, I didn’t figure you enjoyed the smell. Or the view.”

  (The view from the riverbed was dismal. The fact that it hasn’t been mentioned yet only proves that point; it was exactly the sort of thing you couldn’t see from the road.)

  “I have a house,” he said, getting back on track. She was always pulling him off track.

  “You told me about it once. You said it was safe.”

  “Yes. I have a safe house with a soft bed. I have a warm hearth. Fresh bread, every day. Running water.”

  She’d pulled her arm away, but she was still there, peeking out at him from behind long, dirt-caked ropes of hair.

  “It’s right on the road,” he said. “The smoothest part of it.”

  “You’re very lucky,” she said.

  “You could be lucky!” He hadn’t meant to shout it. “Darling . . .” he whispered. “I could make you lucky.”

  She was hidden behind the ropes. “You shouldn’t call me that.”

  “I wouldn’t have to if you’d tell me your name.”

  She was being very still. Adam understood that he should be still, too. That they were both trying not to crack.

  She wrapped her finger-like things around his ankle. They really were webbed. “Adam,” she said, “I can’t live on the road. I’m a bridge troll.”

  “I could build a bridge,” he said. He wasn’t sure where.

  “Don’t be stupid,” she said.

  “Don’t be mean.”

  “I’m a bridge troll!”

  “What do bridge trolls even do?” Adam demanded.

  She wrapped her other hand around his other ankle.

  He reached out to touch her cheek. (It felt like silt. But it was certainly a cheek.)

  “We eat stones!” she hissed. “And children’s bones! But mostly we trick men into our clutches.”

  “Fine,” Adam said, “I’m tricked!”

  Her fingers were so tight around his ankles. “I can’t live on the road with you!”

  “Because of the crows?”

  “The crows?! No.”

  “You made me feel weak because of the crows.”

  “Oh, Adam, you are weak. Sometimes it’s the thing I like best about you. You’re so fucking soft.”

  He rubbed his fingers along her cheek, pushing through the dirt, wanting to see what was underneath.

  “It isn’t the crows,” she said.

  “Is it the Bouts of Delirium?”

  “You’ve never mentioned the Bouts of Delirium.”

  “I was going to mention them, when you agreed to live with me. I was going to warn you about everything. I wanted to show you the road first. So you’d understand.”

  She was letting him scrape the muck away from her cheek. She was reaching her fingers up the cuffs of his jeans.

  “Adam, you know what the road is doing, don’t you?”

  “I know more about the road than you do. I grew up there!”

  “Then you know,” she said, “that the road is killing everything.”

  He hadn’t expected her to say that. Maybe you didn’t expect her to say that. Magical creatures are usually more cryptic.

  “Not everything,” Adam said.

  She laughed. (He did make her laugh. At least once a day.)

  “Everything,” she said, “eventually.”

  “But not today,” he said. This felt like an important thing to say. This felt like the right thing to say, and it must have been at least a little right, because she was clutching at the back of his calves now and pulling herself up between his legs.

  “This is why you should come live with me on the road,” he said. (He was begging, really.) “Because the road will be the last thing to die. And until it dies, it will be so safe. And so warm. And so easy.”

  “Adam.” She fell forward on his chest. He shifted his arms to catch her—to pull her up, his hands on either side of her rib cage. She was heavy in his arms, not as slick as she’d once been, colder than he expected.

  “My love,” he said. (If only she’d tell him her name, he wouldn’t be this embarrassing.)

  “I can’t live with you,” she said.

  “Yes, you can,” he whispered. He tried to hiss it, but his tongue wasn’t built for sibilance. “I want you.”

  “My love,” she said, and she didn’t even have an excuse to sound embarrassing. “Go home. Come back tomorrow. Bring me coffee.”

  “The coffee seems silly now,” he said. “I would have brought you gold. I could have brought you frankincense and myrrh—I know where to find them. You can get them lots of places up there.”

  “Come back tomorrow,” she said, “and bring me something sweet. Bring me something dear that you didn’t have to fight for.”

  Adam left.

  But first he cried.

  He didn’t go back to work—what was the point? He went back home and climbed into his clean, soft bed without changing out of his muddy clothes.

  He closed his eyes. He focused hard. On good things: rain, her.

  Eventually, he slept.

  It was raining when Adam woke up. It had been so long since it rained.

  My mother was right, he thought. Good things come to good people.

  He squeezed through the hedge and nearly lost his balance on the other side. The ground was wet. He’d brought lattes today. She might like something hot.

  It was raining hard; Adam may have focused too much. Everything that had been dry and dusty was wet and running. Even the river had come back to life, a muddy stream rushing under the bridge.

  “Hello!” Adam shouted. “I’m here!”

  He looked out to the center of the channel, where she liked to wait for him. The last place to dry out, the first place to get wet.

  “I’m here,” he called out again. “I’ve got a Peppermint Mocha and a Chestnut Praline. Not only would I choose the mint, but I actually hate the chestnut. That’s a full-on aggression!”

  She didn’t answer. He couldn’t see her. It was raining too hard. And the wind was blowing.

  Adam sat down at the edge of the riverbed and waited. The coffee got cold.

  “Hello!” he shouted.

  He was standing on the bridge, leaning over the railing. The rain was still coming down. The river was so high it had devoured his path along the bank.