To Henry's eight-year-old eyes, Stony River Bridge was nothing more than splintered planks held together by rusty bolts. But his mother had grown up there, had loved the bridge and the river it spanned, so that's where he went to think, to remember.

      The very night they'd arrived at Gram's, his mother had taken him to the bridge. They stayed until the moon rose, bare feet dangling over the edge, while she told stories about her childhood. Afterwards, she took two pennies from her pocket and gave one to Henry. They each made a wish and threw the pennies into the river, watching the tiny splunks as they hit the water.

      Now, he settled down in the exact spot they'd sat that perfect night. But everything had changed. "You need to talk about it, Honey," his grandmother had said after the funeral. "You'll feel better." His mother was dead; how could talking possibly make him feel better?

      Henry lay on his back, gazing at the stars, until the summer breeze lulled him to sleep.

      He awoke with a start, sensing someone beside him. He jumped up. "Who are you?" he demanded, voice trembling. 

      She was older than Henry, twelve or thirteen, he guessed. She wore torn jeans rolled to her ankles and a man's shirt, safety pins replacing two buttons. Even before she shook her head, and pointed to her ears, Henry realized who she was--Daisy, the deaf-mute daughter of Edgar Jackman. Henry had heard talk in town of the "hard-drinking, petty-thieving Jackman clan," but Gram allowed as how Edgar had been near respectable, working odd jobs up until last year when his wife, Vera, simply disappeared, her whereabouts a mystery.

      Then three weeks ago, a drunken Edgar plowed his truck through the plate-glass window of Fieldman's Drugstore, demolishing the aisle where Henry's mother stood, toothpaste and aspirin in hand.

      Henry stared at the girl. He hated her father, wanted to hate her, but she returned his stare with sad, innocent eyes.

      She put her hand to her heart and then to his.

      "It's not your fault," he said, not knowing if she read lips, unsure she understood.

      She took his hand in hers, and it felt oddly familiar, almost like his mother's. Tears sprang to his eyes, and for reasons he didn't understand, he felt free to let them spill. There, on that moonlit bridge, holding a deaf girl's hand, he cried and talked about his mother. How smart she was, her corny laugh and crummy jokes. How she'd taught Henry to swim and ride a bicycle. He talked until his voice grew hoarse, and when he was done, he pulled two pennies from his pocket and gave one to Daisy. Henry made a wish, and, together, they tossed the coins into the flowing waters.