Jessy, at thirteen, was a serious birdwatcher and carefully cataloged his sightings. Junie, his best friend and three months his junior, fancied herself a trail interpreter. When they rode their bikes through the deep native woodlands just beyond their small town, Junie’s eyes were on the ground, and Jessy’s head was in the trees. He could whistle the call of any bird he spotted, and Junie mapped all the trails that ran through the deep woods. They were on the outskirts of puberty, and while they had only talked about it once when they were swimming in the deepest pool in the creek, they had agreed that they would marry when they were old enough.
Early one morning in late August, Jessy was helping with yardwork when he heard the heartfelt cry of Mrs. Mathew, a close neighbor. Her terrier, Dancer, had dashed out into the street and stopped in the path of an oncoming pickup truck. Jessy ran out into the street and grabbed the dog. He had just managed to toss the dog onto the curb when the truck hit Jessy, bouncing him off the bumper.
The only thing that can be said about Junie’s grief is that it blackened the sky, caused rosebuds to drop without blooming, and created a dull but throbbing silence throughout the township. Everyone mourned Jessy. He has been an exceptional and beloved son. But even the love of his parents seemed to pale against the deep and terrible pain that settled on Junie.
Junie couldn’t bear the memories of birds and trails of the woodlands, and so she kept to the dry, asphalted streets. Even there, Jessy’s impression appeared on every tree, bush, and blade of grass. When she found the plans they’d made for an ant farm on her small desk, she wept over them until the paper fell apart in her hands.
It was her ancient neighbor, Mrs. Grath, who warned Junie about too much grieving for the dead. “You spend that much time thinking about those that are gone, something is going to come through that thin veil and haunt you.” Mrs. Grath gave Junie a sack of warm cookies and sent her on her way.
It was later that night, when Junie was staring out her bedroom window, that she saw a girl in a fluttery white dress standing under the large oak tree in the backyard. The girl turned her face up toward Junie and lifted one hand in a silent wave. Then she seemed to drift like a leaf and was gone.
Thunder started up, the kind that rolls across the sky with rumbling swirls and groans. Junie watched a lightning bolt carve across the dark night, and a huge peal shook the house. Without knowing she had decided to go, she pulled on her rainboots and raincoat and stumbled out into the night, heading toward the woodlands. Once there, she returned to her childhood ways, hunting along the paths, her face to the ground until she came to the creek.
It was there, under the soft light of a slivered moon, that Junie saw a slender figure moving through the water toward the deepest pool where Junie had swum with Jessy. The figure paused and turned around to face Junie as her white dress floated around her, swirled by small currents. A voice reached across the pond. “You should come here. The water is lovely. It’s warmer than your bed, warmer than Christmas.”
Junie stepped into the creek. The current tugged against her boots. She took a second step and could feel the current caressing her.
The figure reached a long arm out to Junie. “It’s like warm cookies and milk.” Junie started to walk forward, sensing more than understanding that the water was growing much deeper and colder. “We can walk together. Take my hand.” A pale, transparent hand reached out to Junie as the current pulled hard, and her feet seemed to float above the rocky bottom of the creek. She could still hear a soft, drifting voice, “It’s warmer here.”
Junie took one last step into the deep current, then stumbled, and saw, more than felt, herself falling slowly through the water.
It was then that a yellow dog raced out from the bushes along the creek, barking and running along the bank. He was more puppy than dog, but even so, he jumped fearlessly into the water and swam toward the deep pool, toward Junie. He floundered in the chill water. There was a clear hoot of an owl, and then another. Junie looked up to see something soar just above her on wings that were silent and strong. She took a deep breath and tried to straighten up from the water as the current pulled against her. It was her struggles that turned her around toward the flailing, waterlogged puppy. As the owl hooted one last time, she began her hard struggle against the current. Junie fought her way through the water until she reached the puppy and could gather him up into her arms. Together, they moved slowly toward the shore and away from whatever the deep pool might have held. The dog, soon named Curry, was a mongrel puppy who would not be parted from Junie. He was her comfort during nights when thunder cracked and loneliness seeped in through the siding and roofing tiles. He was her comfort as they meandered together through the forest paths, and she whispered to him of the boy who had wandered the forest paths with her, and about the ant farm they had planned to build.