Chapter 3 - THE DENIM BRIDGE
The girl couldn't have been older than Eli—seven, perhaps eight at the absolute most.
She was slight of frame, with long, honey-brown hair that tumbled loosely over her shoulders in gentle, windblown waves. Her clothes spoke of modest, hard-worn circumstances that contrasted sharply with the bespoke luxury of the Vales. She wore a dusty pair of faded pink cotton trousers, scuffed canvas sneakers with frayed white laces, a thick cream sweater that looked slightly too large for her narrow frame, and a bright pink wool scarf wrapped twice around her neck. Slung over one shoulder was an old, faded blue canvas backpack, its front pocket gaping open where a metal zipper had snapped off and been replaced by two rusty safety pins.
Over her sweater, she wore a faded, well-loved denim jacket—the kind that had been washed a hundred times until the denim was soft as flannel, with frayed edges along the cuffs and a small embroidered sunflower patch on the left collar.
She didn't look at Ronan. She didn't look at Marco, who had immediately shifted his posture, his hand tightening on the grip inside his trench coat. She had the focused, pragmatic gaze of a child who spent her days observing the world and solving problems without asking permission.
She walked straight up to the edge of the mud puddle, stopping just three feet from Eli.
Eli glared at her through his damp lashes, his little chest heaving, his guard fully raised. He expected her to laugh. He expected her to point at his legs. He expected her to say something cruel or, worse, something pitying.
Instead, without uttering a single word, the young girl reached up to the buttons of her faded denim jacket.
Her small fingers worked quickly, popping the metal brass buttons from their worn slots with practiced ease. She shrugged her shoulders, slid her arms out of the sleeves, and pulled the jacket free. The chilly lakeside wind immediately caught the knit of her cream sweater, making her shiver slightly, but her expression remained completely calm, completely intent.
Eli stared at her, his eyebrows drawing together in utter bewilderment.
"What are you doing?" Eli asked, his tone guarded, suspicious.
The girl didn't look up immediately. She bent at the waist, gripped the jacket by the sturdy collar and the bottom hem, and swung it forward.
With a wet, definitive slap, she spread the faded denim jacket flat across the widest, slickest section of the muddy patch. The durable cotton fabric formed an immediate, rough bridge directly over the soupy silt, pinning the slippery leaves beneath its heavy weave.
She looked up at Eli, her pale, rosy face framed by wisps of light-brown hair, her hazel eyes bright and entirely matter-of-fact.
"Making a path," she said simply.
May you like
Before Eli could process the words, the girl dropped down onto her knees directly in the damp grass at the edge of the puddle, completely indifferent to the moisture seeping into her dusty pink pants. She reached out with both hands, grabbing the sleeves of the jacket and pulling them taut, anchoring the denim firmly against the asphalt with the full weight of her small body.
"Go on," she instructed, nodding her head toward the jacket. "Step on it. It won't slip."
