The Hot Air Balloon

Cass had never been afraid of anything. Not thunderstorms. Not the deep end of the swimming pool. Not even Mrs. Finley's enormous dog, Biscuit, who had a head the size of a watermelon and a bark that could rattle windows.

But right now, standing in the middle of a green field with her family, looking up at the hot air balloon that her dad had surprised them with for her birthday — Cass was afraid.

The balloon was enormous. It was red and orange and yellow, like someone had caught a sunset and sewn it into a giant fabric bag. The basket underneath was made of wicker, the kind that creaked when you touched it, and there was a man inside it doing something with fire. Actual fire. A huge, roaring, hissing tongue of flame that shot up into the belly of the balloon and made the whole thing strain against the ropes holding it down.

"Happy birthday, Cass!" her dad said, grinning so wide his eyes crinkled shut. "You said you wanted an adventure!"

Cass had said that. She remembered saying that. She had been sitting on the kitchen counter eating a granola bar and she had said, very bravely, "I want a REAL adventure for my birthday." And she had meant it. At the time.

Now the balloon was pulling at its ropes like it wanted to leave without her, and the fire was roaring, and the basket looked very, very small compared to all that sky up there.

"Ready to go?" asked the balloon pilot. His name was George. He had a thick gray mustache and a calm voice, like a librarian, which did not match the fact that he was standing next to a column of fire.

Cass's little brother, Theo, was already climbing in. Theo was four. He was afraid of raisins and the vacuum cleaner and the sound the toilet made when it flushed, but apparently he was NOT afraid of flying high into the air in a wicker basket. He scrambled right over the side like a monkey.

"Come on, Cass!" Theo yelled.

Her mom and dad climbed in too.

Cass stood in the grass. Her sneakers felt heavy. Her stomach felt like it had a hamster running on a wheel inside it.

"You don't have to," her mom said gently, reaching a hand over the edge of the basket. "But I think you might like it."

Cass looked at the balloon. She looked at the sky. She looked at her mom's hand.

She grabbed it and climbed in.

The basket was snug. Five people standing together, shoulders touching. The wicker creaked under her feet and she could feel it — the whole thing swaying, wanting to go up, held down only by one thick rope tied to a metal stake in the ground.

"All right," George said. "Here we go."

He pulled a lever. The fire roared — FWOOOOOSH — so loud Cass felt it in her chest. She grabbed the edge of the basket with both hands and squeezed until her knuckles went white.

George nodded to someone on the ground, and the rope was untied.

And then —

The basket lifted.

Not fast. Not like a roller coaster. Not like an airplane. It lifted the way a bubble lifts off a bathtub — slow, gentle, like the earth was just… letting go.

But Cass's stomach didn't know that. Her stomach thought they were rocketing into space. Her stomach was screaming. Her hands gripped tighter. She pressed her back against her dad's legs and stared straight ahead at the inside of the basket, refusing to look down.

"Oh WOW!" Theo shouted.

"Don't — don't bounce, Theo," Cass said through her teeth.

The fire roared again. FWOOOOOSH. The basket swayed. Cass's heart hammered so hard she could hear it in her ears.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.

She counted the way she did when she was waiting for something scary to be over. Like at the dentist. Or when the lights went out during a storm.

Eighteen Mississippi. Nineteen Mississippi. Twenty Mississippi.

The fire stopped.

And then — silence.

Not regular silence. Not quiet-room silence. A silence Cass had never heard before. It was as if someone had turned down the volume on the entire world. No cars. No lawn mowers. No dogs barking. No refrigerator humming. Nothing. Just air. Just the softest, gentlest breeze brushing past her ears like a whisper with no words.

Cass opened her eyes. She hadn't realized she'd closed them.

She looked up first. The balloon curved above her, glowing where the sun came through — all those reds and oranges lit up like stained glass. It was beautiful.

Then, slowly, very slowly, she looked over the edge.

And the world —

The world was enormous.

The green field below had shrunk into a tiny square, like a postage stamp on a big, big envelope. She could see the road they'd driven in on, thin as a ribbon. She could see a pond she hadn't even noticed before, shining silver in the sun. She could see a farm, and a forest, and another town way off in the distance with rooftops the size of Theo's fingernails.

Everything looked so small. And so quiet. And so still.

"Daddy," Cass whispered. "I can see everything."

"I know," her dad whispered back.

They floated. That was the only word for it. They weren't flying — flying was loud and fast and mechanical. This was floating. Drifting. The wind pushed them gently, like a river carries a leaf, and the whole world turned slowly beneath them.

Cass loosened her grip on the basket. One finger at a time.

A bird flew past — below them. BELOW them. Cass laughed out loud because she had never in her life been higher than a bird.

"Look," her mom said, pointing. "See those tiny things moving on that road?"

"Cars!" Cass said. They looked like ants. Like the little toy cars Theo pushed around on the kitchen floor.

"And there," George said, his calm librarian voice blending perfectly with the quiet. "See that dark shape at the edge of that field?"

Cass leaned over — leaned over! — and squinted. A deer. Standing at the tree line, looking up at them.

"It's watching us," she breathed.

"Animals always notice," George said. "They look up more than people do."

The air was cool and clean and tasted like nothing — not like home, not like school, not like anywhere. Just air. Pure sky air.

Theo leaned against Cass's side. He'd gotten quiet too. Even Theo, who never stopped talking, who narrated every single thing he did from morning to night — even Theo was just standing there, looking out, his mouth slightly open, his eyes wide and round.

Cass put her arm around him.

They floated over the forest, and the trees looked like broccoli — hundreds and hundreds of little broccoli tops packed together, deep green and rumpled. Cass smiled at that and then started looking for other things that looked like other things. A river that looked like a sleeping snake. A highway that looked like a zipper. A swimming pool that looked like a bright blue eye, winking up at the sky.

"How do you feel?" her dad asked, resting his hand on her shoulder.

Cass thought about it. Really thought about it.

Her hands weren't gripping anymore. Her stomach hamster had gone to sleep. Her heart was beating slow and steady, like a drum keeping time for a quiet song. She felt calm in a way she didn't have a word for. Like being wrapped in a blanket, except the blanket was the whole sky.

"Big," Cass said.

Her dad tilted his head. "Big?"

"Yeah," she said, looking out at the world — all of it, every field and road and rooftop and river — spread out below her like a gift someone had unwrapped just for her.

"I feel big."

George pulled the lever one more time. The fire roared — FWOOOOOSH — but this time, Cass didn't flinch. She just tilted her head back, watched the flame light up the inside of the balloon like a lantern, and smiled.

They floated on.