The Long Way Home

Wren and her dad stood at the end of the sidewalk.

"Which way home?" said Dad.

Wren pointed left. Left was the short way. Left was fast.

But Dad pointed right.

"Let's go the long way," he said.

Wren scrunched her nose. "But the long way takes forever."

"Yep," said Dad. And he started walking.

Wren's boots went crunch crunch crunch on the gravel path behind the library. Dad's boots went CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH. Wren tried to match his steps. One big step. One big step. She wobbled. She hopped. Her boot landed in a puddle.

SPLAT.

Brown water jumped up and spotted her yellow coat.

"Dad! My coat!"

Dad looked at the spots. He tilted his head. "Looks like a constellation," he said.

"What's a constellation?"

"Stars that make a picture." He pointed at her sleeve. "See? That one looks like a dog."

Wren looked. It did not look like a dog. It looked like mud. But she didn't wipe it off.

They turned down the alley where the fences were tall. Someone had left a gate open, and inside Wren could see a garden. The tomatoes were fat and red. A sprinkler was going tch-tch-tch-tch-tch, spinning in slow circles.

"Dad, look."

They stopped. They watched the sprinkler turn. Water caught the light and threw tiny rainbows across the dirt.

"Whoa," said Wren.

"Whoa," said Dad.

A cat appeared on top of the fence. An orange cat with a funny chewed-up ear. It stared at Wren. Wren stared back. The sprinkler swung around and a line of water hit the cat right on its belly.

The cat's eyes went HUGE.

It jumped off the fence like a furry rocket, disappeared over the other side, and knocked a flower pot off with its tail.

CRASH.

Wren laughed so hard she sat down on the sidewalk.

Dad laughed so hard he had to hold the fence.

They stayed like that for a while. Just laughing.

They walked along the creek where the water was low. Wren found a stick — a good one, straight and smooth, perfect for dragging along the ground. It made a long wobbly line in the dirt behind her, like a trail of every place she'd been.

Dad found a feather. Gray and white, soft at the edges. He tucked it behind Wren's ear.

"Now you match your name," he said.

Wren touched the feather gently. A wren was a bird. She knew that.

The sky was turning pink and orange. The shadows got long and stretched out like taffy. Wren's stick kept drawing its line — past the big rock, past the bench with one broken board, past the fire hydrant that someone had painted to look like a ladybug.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Are we almost home?"

"Almost."

Wren could see their house now. The porch light was on. It looked warm and small and golden.

She stopped walking. Dad stopped too.

"Can we go the long way again tomorrow?" she said.

Dad didn't answer right away. He just put his big hand on top of her head, right on top of the feather, and it was the warmest thing she'd felt all day.

"Yeah," he said. "We can go the long way tomorrow."

They walked up the porch steps together. Wren's yellow coat had mud stars on the sleeve. A gray feather sat behind her ear. A good stick rested in her hand.

She set the stick by the door, right where she could find it in the morning.