“Plaid pocket. Frayed cuffs. Midnight blue,” the boy explained.

He peaked over the books from the aisle one over as I stocked the new books section. He’d said he ended up in my town because of a coat he had bought at a Salvation Army store. His brown eyes gazed into mine across the books. A flutter went through my chest. I’ve never had someone look at me as if… as if he was really seeing me.

I averted my gaze. But the flutter was still there. “So… the coat really brought you here?”

The little river was dry and was nearly always dry. The two boys walked along the bed of crackled red clay, where patches of brittle desert scrub sprouted here and there, before sitting under a palo verde tree that stood like a twisted sentinel upon the bank. Some crows pecked at the ground not far from the tree, bobbing their whole bodies and cawing from time to time for no discernible reason. The boys rested their backs against the thin trunk of the mostly leafless palo verde.

I used to cry myself to sleep nearly every night. As I stifled my sobs with a pillow, Mother would attempt to soothe me by brushing my hair.
One night, she tucked a yellow wildflower behind my ear. “To sweeten your dreams,” she whispered, before pressing her soft lips against my forehead. “A sensitive soul is a gift, as near to magic as anything, my darling Isabella. Never allow anyone to destroy your magic.”