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table, a green-tiled kitchen island, and a gas stove. A fern hung in the window above the sink.
    Mr. Nelson took down two glasses from a cabinet and filled them with milk. I grabbed his bread, laying out two napkins before placing slices on it.
    “They only look green ‘cause your mama ain’t got a green thumb in her body,” Mr. Nelson pointed out.
    I laughed. He was right; Mom couldn’t grow anything. Oh, she tried, but with absolutely no success. She’d even gotten the wild idea to buy a bonsai tree once because she thought they were cute.
    “There’s no way to kill a bonsai,” Mom had said.
    Four bonsai trees later, she’d changed her mind. She’d named the first bonsai Ono as in “oh no!”. We were on Ono number five, and it was already turning brown.
    When the first one died, Mom had shaken her head and asked, “How the hell do you kill a bonsai tree?”
    I’d tried to hide a chuckle and failed. “ You touch it,” I’d answered.
    Mom hadn’t been amused. Of course, she’d bought another tree after that because Mom was nothing if not persistent.
    “Bless her heart,” I told Mr. Nelson while holding up my hands. “Black thumbs. Both of them. A plant sees her, and it withers and dies.”
    Thomas Nelson chuckled. “Good thing she was better at raisin’ a kid. You turned out right as rain, Haven Ambrose.”
    I grinned. “Don’t tell her that. It’ll blow her head up.”
    The old man grunted, his hands trembling as he slapped together a sandwich and ambled over to his kitchen table.
    “You been a great comfort to an old man,” he said. “You be careful down at the river. Your mom, God love her, trusts too easy.”
    I sat opposite him, picking at the bread on my napkin. “I will.”
    We ate together in companionable silence until there was nothing but crumbs left of his sandwich and two bites left of mine. I never took the last bite of a meal. Ever. It was an old habit that was hard to break, a small concession to an illness I still fought on a daily basis. Mr. Nelson picked up the rest of my bread and stood.
    “We can feed it to Mangy Beast,” he said.
    I never felt awkward when I was with Mr. Nelson. He expounded on everything good about me, leaving out my shortcomings.
    Following him back out of the house, I asked, “Do you believe in magic?”
    Mr. Nelson stopped on the back porch, his eyes on his wife’s plants. “Magic, huh?”
    “You know,” I said, shrugging, “like the river legend?”
    Mr. Nelson pushed open his screen door. “I’d tell you no, child, but then I look at these plants or watch when a new bud rises from the garden, and it’s magic. All of it.”
    It only took minutes for the suffocating heat outside to rob us of breath and soak our clothes. I picked up another bucket, my feet once more in the soil, swatting occasionally at the gnats as they bumped against my sweat-sodden skin. Above us, the blue sky was filled with white fluffy clouds, the smell of dirt mingling with the scent of sunshine and fertilizer. Mr. Nelson was right. It was all magic.

 
     
    Chapter 8
     
    River
     
    Old Marley was an interesting man. He was in his late fifties with salt and pepper black hair and a loud voice. He was mostly fit for an older man, although his clothes accented a small paunch around his middle. His always squinted eyes were covered in large spectacles that should have been retired years ago and replaced by the more fashionable smaller frames, but Uncle Marley was like that… eccentric and set in his forever odd ways.
    “This is good food, Marissa. Very good,” Marley said.
    He was sitting at the head of our table, his squinted eyes on his plate, his attention focused on everything but the meal.
    Marissa glanced at me, her eyes shining. It was Saturday night, and Marissa had done as she’d always done on the weekend when Bonnie didn’t stay late to cook. She ordered in.
    “Thank you. Wasn’t much to it at all,” she mumbled.
    Roman grunted from the other side of