The Long Walk

Lucy and Grandpa were walking home from the library.

"Shortcut," Grandpa said, turning left instead of right.

Lucy didn't mind. She had her red boots on. Red boots could walk anywhere.

The sidewalk was cracked near Mrs. Patterson's house. Dandelion fluff poked through like tiny white fireworks, frozen mid-bang.

Lucy stomped one with her boot and the seeds scattered up, up, up into the pink sky.

Grandpa was checking his phone. "Hmm," he said. "Maybe it was the next left."

They turned again.

Now they were on a street Lucy didn't know. The houses here had big porches. A gray cat sat on a railing, watching them like they were a very boring TV show.

"Hello, cat," Lucy whispered.

The cat blinked once. Slowly.

That meant hello.

Grandpa walked fast. Lucy's legs were shorter than his, so she did a little hop-skip-hop to keep up. Her library book bounced in the bag against her hip. Thump, thump, thump.

They passed a yard where a sprinkler was still going — tch-tch-tch-tch-tch — spinning water across the grass even though nobody was playing in it. The water caught the last bit of sunlight and turned gold.

Lucy reached out her hand as they passed and felt three cold drops land on her fingers.

Grandpa turned another corner. Then he stopped. He looked up the street. He looked down the street.

"Well," he said.

Lucy looked up at him.

"We are a tiny bit lost," Grandpa said.

"Oh," said Lucy.

"Not to worry," said Grandpa. He turned his phone sideways, then upside down. Then he held it very far from his face and squinted so hard his whole nose wrinkled up like a raisin.

Lucy giggled.

They kept walking.

The sky was changing now. The pink was melting into purple, like someone had knocked over a paint cup way up high. The streetlights buzzed on, one by one, making little golden circles on the ground.

Lucy stepped into a circle of light. Then she stepped into the dark. Then another circle of light.

Light, dark, light, dark, light.

Her legs were getting tired. The hop-skip-hop slowed to a shuffle.

A window glowed yellow in a house they passed. Inside, someone was cooking. Lucy could smell something warm and sweet — like cinnamon, maybe, or toast.

Grandpa's hand found hers. His palm was big and warm.

"Almost there, Luce. I think."

A dog barked far away. Then it was quiet again. Just their footsteps. Pat, pat, pat. Her red boots. Thud, thud, thud. Grandpa's big brown shoes.

Crickets started up in somebody's bushes, singing their tiny creaky songs. Lucy's eyes felt heavy, like her eyelids were filled with sand.

Then — she saw it.

The big oak tree on the corner. The one with the knot that looked like a surprised face. Their corner.

"Grandpa," she whispered. "Grandpa, look."

And there was their house. The porch light was on. Mama had left it glowing for them, a warm yellow circle, the best one yet.

Grandpa scooped Lucy up. She rested her head on his shoulder. Her red boots dangled. The library book bumped softly against his back.

"Some shortcut," Grandpa said quietly, and she could feel his chest rumble when he laughed.

The front door opened. Light poured out like a hello.

Lucy closed her eyes.

She could still see it — gold behind her eyelids — the sprinkler, the streetlights, the porch, all the little circles of brightness they had walked through to get home.

Grandpa carried her inside.

The door clicked shut.

The crickets kept singing.