writes at the top of the page: Dear Joe.
“Writing to Joe?” I ask.
“Yeah, well, the animals in these stories are really smart, and I think Joe is smart, too, so I’ve been writing him letters.”
“Are you expecting a response?” I ask. If I could catch her leaving the letters, I could write responses for her. It would be a little lie—like the tooth fairy, but with crows.
“That’s stupid, Leighton. Birds can’t write.”
Oh, well, never mind the letter plan.
“But he might leave more gifts.”
“What?” I turn on my side to face her, curious.
“I left Joe a letter last week, and when I checked it was gone, and he left me a present.”
“What kind of present?” Juniper has a good imagination, and I don’t usually call out her stories, but this doesn’t sound like one of her games.
Juniper reaches into the pocket of her jeans, and then opens her fist to reveal a shiny blue marble.
“Joe left you this?” I take the marble and roll it between my fingers.
“I didn’t see. But I think it was a crow. I left the note and some crackers. You won’t tell I fed them, right?” I shake my head and hold up the raisins as evidence of my own guilt. She continues. “I came back and they were gone, but there was a marble and a feather.”
It feels like a stretch to me, but I reach for my notebook and write another note to ask an expert about crow behaviors. They’re really smart. Maybe it isn’t a coincidence. Maybe Juniper is getting presents from the crows.
“He’s not leaving presents, Juniper. He’s dropping garbage,” Campbell says from behind us.
“Well, aren’t you a little ray of darkness,” I say. “Don’t listen to her, June Bug. I think it’s possible Joe is leaving gifts, and I’ll even find a bird expert so I can ask them.”
“Thanks, Leighton.” She stands up with her letter, but Campbell reaches out, snatching it from Juniper’s grasp and holding it above her head.
“‘Dear Joe,’” Campbell reads. “‘My teacher says it’s bad for the town that you are here now because you are loud and messy, but I’m loud and messy, too.’” Campbell pauses and rolls her eyes. “You’ve got that right.”
“Stop that! Give it back!” Juniper jumps, trying to get her letter back.
“‘Tell your friends they should stay. When I see you I feel safe’—”
On the last word, Campbell stops short, her arm lowering enough that Junie can grab her note back.
“Cammy,” I say, but the look on her face tells me that she feels bad already.
“Here, Leighton, you believe me, so you’re allowed to read it,” Juniper says.
I read the end of the letter silently.
Your fethers are pretty. I found six so far and I’m starting a collecshon. One is gray so I think it is yours. Love, Juniper Barnes, Age 9
“It’s a lovely note,” I tell her as I return it. “Joe is gonna love it.” Her frown softens at my words, and she’s off, folded note in hand, running toward the tree at the far end of our property. She kneels under the branches and looks up. Her mouth moves, but I can’t hear what she’s saying to the birds.
“You’ve gotta be nicer to her,” I tell Campbell.
Campbell starts to walk away. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her when you go to college.”
There’s so much resentment in her voice. I struggle to think of the right thing to say to her this time.
“Campbell, I won’t—”
The sound of a truck roaring onto our road distracts us.
“Oh no,” Cammy says, running. She races around to the front of the house, but she’s barely rounded the corner when I hear a horrible screeching sound.
I leap to my feet and follow her. He’s back, his truck thrown into park but still on, and he’s in front of it, tugging on something.
Campbell is frozen in the yard.
“What is it?” I ask, but then he wins his battle.
Campbell’s crushed bicycle is pulled out from under the front of the truck.
Shit.
“What the fuck was this doing where I park?” he yells, throwing the mangled bicycle into our lawn. “The front bumper is fucking scratched to hell. Dammit, Campbell!” He screams the last at her as he passes, storming into the house and slamming the door as he calls for Mom. But Cam doesn’t flinch, or even act as though she’s registered his existence. She’s just standing in the yard, looking at her bike where it lies bent in half. She stands there, and I see it: