Page 134 of A River of Crows

When Sloan got older, she’d come here with Dad to fill buckets of water to put out their family campfires. Was there ever a time they both came back dry? As soon as one was crouched over the water, they were a goner.

We all fall down.

She remembered hundreds of times when she, Ridge, and Noah splashed in this water, waiting for the crows, rocks on the creek bottom poking into their bare feet. They were too old for “Ring Around the Rosie,” but they played plenty of innocent games of Truth or Dare.

Then she thought of being seventeen in the river with Noah. The cold shock of water against her bare skin as the dares became less innocent. A fist full of wildflowers he’d picked for her, shoved into the pocket of her jeans. Jeans she’d shed on the riverbank.

Pocket full of posies.

Ridge’s voice broke through her memories. “It’s been a while since we’ve been here for a roost. We just need Noah.”

“Grape Squeezeits and Fruit Wrinkles, too,” Sloan said.

Ridge sat up and unzipped his backpack. “Well, I brought the adult version of Squeezits.” He pulled out two beers from his backpack, using his ring to twist off the caps.

“Thanks.” Sloan took a drink. “These are a definite improvement.”

They took a few sips in silence then she spoke again. “Ridge, you can tell me the truth now. Did you know you were leaving the last time we were here?”

Ridge kept his eyes on the crows. “Yeah. I knew.”

Sloan couldn’t imagine. To be ten years old and hold the weight of such a secret inside his tiny chest. He must have been so scared. Sloan wished she could go back and change how she’d treated him that night. She wished she could go back and save him, save them all. But what was that saying Grandpa Radel always told her? The river can’t return to its source.

More crows flew overhead, landing in trees all around them. Minute by minute, the purple sky grew blacker and noisier.

“Just think, amid all that screeching, there’s a crow named Crawford saying your name,” Sloan said.

“Yeah.” Ridge’s eyes lit up. “I forgot how cool this is. I mean, we’ve got plenty of roosts in New York, but not rural ones like this. You can’t exactly go lay down on Elmira Avenue like you can here.”

“Why are so many roosts in cities?” Sloan asked.

“Hard to say, but probably because cities are a few degrees warmer than rural areas and have more food.”

Sloan motioned to the sky. “So why don’t these guys move into town?”

“I’ve wondered. This is one of the longest-running roosts in the country. One of the few in Texas. Something here draws them back year after year.”

Sloan leaned back on her elbows. “Guess I can relate. This is the creek I thought you drowned in, yet it was the first place I ran to for sanctuary. I slept out here in our tent hundreds of nights after you were gone. Then, you miraculously rose out of that river, but Mom took your place. Yet here I am—again.”

“Wow. Yeah. This is the river where I ruined dad’s life and destroyed our family. It’s where I faked my death, where I sat shivering and crying, waiting for Vince Turner to take me away from a life I loved. Yet, when I came home, this is where I spent my days.”

“Maybe it’s like visiting a grave,” Sloan said. “Respect. Remembrance.”

“Speaking of . . .” Ridge reached into his backpack. “Are you ready?”

Sloan pushed herself up. “Ready or not.”

Ridge pulled the lid off the cardboard box, revealing the bag of their mother’s ashes. “Where should we do it?” he asked.

“I think here is fine. Close to the water, close to the crows.”

They stepped beyond the canopy, and Ridge handed her the bag. “You can go first.”

Sloan tilted the bag, but Ridge held out his hand. “Wait. Shouldn’t we say a prayer or something first?”

“Go ahead.” Sloan held up the bag as Ridge said a quick prayer. “Anything you want to say?” he asked when he finished.

Sloan wished it were that easy. What could she possibly say about such a complex life? About such a complex relationship? Tears filled her eyes as she poured. “Goodbye, Mom,” were the only words she could manage.