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with Carly. Spring might have
come early, but night still came on fast. Too fast. Especially
on school nights.
    They made the most of their time together. Carly was
always waiting for him, and every day brought new wonders.
Baby animals were being born everywhere — a blue jay’s
nest one day, a rabbit den another — and the forest itself
was changing, greening and thickening. The creeks were
rising with the spring run-off, and the swamps burst into
sudden colour: yellows and purples and oranges of flowers
half-hidden in the shadows.
    And everyday it was harder to say goodbye. When it
came time, Brian would leave it as long as he could, reluctant
to let go of her, of their time together, even as the house
started to disappear in the falling dark.
    He took solace in the knowledge that there was always
tomorrow, that he would be back in the woods with her in
only a matter of hours.
    But then the rains came, black sheets of March rain that
soaked one to the bone in an instant, that chilled one to
the core.
    It rained for days, the creeks rising and rising and
almost slipping their beds, the animals slinking through
the low brush only when absolutely necessary, and all Brian
could do was look out at the woods as the rain streaked his
bedroom window.
    Carly was waiting for him in their usual spot three days
later. From the bulging grey look of the sky the rains hadn’t
finished, but they had stopped for the moment, and Brian
had hurried across the field as soon as he got changed from
school.
    â€œCarly,” he called as he stepped under the forest’s canopy,
stopping short as he saw her.
    A tight frown was fixed on her face.
    â€œYou didn’t come,” she said, not meeting his eyes.
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œYou said you’d come every day.”
    â€œIt was raining,” he said, as if that was reason enough.
    â€œI waited for you.” She finally looked up at him, long
enough for him to see the hurt in her eyes, then back down
to the ground again.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he repeated. “My dad . . .” His father hadn’t
actually said anything about it: it hadn’t even occurred to
Brian to spend the dark, rainy afternoons in the forest. He
hadn’t thought for a moment she would be there.
    At the mention of his father, she looked up again, and her
eyes seemed a little clearer, more understanding. “I waited ,”
she said again, but sounding sad this time, not angry.
    â€œI’m sorry. I’m here now.”
    Her smile broke through her frown and he felt a weight
lift from him. “You are. You came back.” All around them,
the leaves and boughs dripped as if the rain was still coming
down. “Come on.” She started toward the forest.
    â€œWait.”
    She stopped.
    â€œAre you — ” He gestured toward her. “You don’t have a
coat or anything.” He had bundled himself into a slicker
over his jacket but already felt the damp and the cold; she
wore the same dress as always, her face pink and rosy.
    She smiled at his concern. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “I love
the rain.”
    As they walked he tried, as he always did, to impose
their route on his mental map of the forest he thought he
had come to know. They walked past the reading place —
the lightning-struck tree with the cave in its trunk where
he used to sit and read his guidebook — and the brokendown section of fence grown over with blackberries, the
young canes thin and bright green. They crossed one of the
creeks, the water rough and almost covering the tops of the
stepping stones.
    By Brian’s reckoning, the next turn should have brought
them to a clearing full of huckleberries and salmonberries
that would be ripe in the early summer.
    Instead, she led him into a bright grove, rich with a
heady blur of unfamiliar scents. The sky was bright blue
and warm overhead. The storm must have burned off while
they were under the