Page 31 of We Redeemed the Rain

He hesitated a moment. “Yeah. Sure.”

“What do you do when it rains?”

“Come up here, mostly.”

My brain immediately imagined him up here, alone and sad, on rainy days. It made me want to cry with him. “I feel like there’s a story. About rain.”

His hands froze, the hay still wrapped around his fingers. Then he glanced at me, his response barely audible. “There is.”

“Ooo.” I played a minor chord progression. “I love stories!”

“Andthat’swhere you’re better off not knowin’ me, Strings.” He flicked the hay down and drug his hand through for a new piece. “Some stories shouldn’t be shared.”

“I disagree.”

“You disagree because you’re a curious ten year?—”

“Eleven—”

“—and a half year-old. Got it.” He adjusted his hat, like he was preparing to leave.

“Stories are meant to be told. Even if they’re hard.”

He shook his head. “Stories are more than just words. They’re what make up a person. And sharing them is sharin’ life, sharin’ pain.”

My brain worked overtime to keep up as something flickered in me that I didn’t understand. Years later, I looked back on this moment and wept for him. His heart was begging, screaming, for someone toknowhim. And for some reason, the universe graciously bestowed a dose of intuition on me—a naive kid.

My heart heard.

He needed a friend.

And I decided right then and there to be the one. “Every person should find someone to share their story with. Every person should be known by somebody. At least a little.”

His hum didn’t sound convinced. “Well, now you know me a little.”

I spread my arms. “And look, I’m still happy.”

“Good.”

“Too bad I’m meeting you a few hours before I have to leave. I wish I could be your friend. You’re interesting. And no offense, but it seems like you need one…a friend, I mean.”

He turned toward me, and I sensed his eyes scrutinizing whatever was visible in the darkness. For a moment, I wondered if he was upset.

But then he softly replied, “I would’ve liked bein’ your friend, too.” With that, he stood and smacked flecks of hay off his jeans. “It’s late. I should go. Do you need help gettin’down?”

“No.”

He walked to the ladder and dropped his feet through the opening. Before his head disappeared, he called back to me. “Thanks…for helpin’ me.”

I scooted toward the loft doors and let my feet hang into the open air. My heels tapped against the worn wooden barn as I watched him saunter off through the barnyard, his long legs creating a lengthy gait. He rounded the side of the main house, paused at the blue siding, lifted a window, and slipped inside.

When I finally turned back into the hayloft, I realized he left something.

A book.

I scooped it up and held it toward the moonlight.

It was a plain, black and white composition notebook with a cheap pen tucked inside. My heart thumped in my chest as I flipped through the worn pages. The low light mixed with his poor handwriting made me squint at the paper. The oddly slanted letters were impossible to read, but the pages were filled—covered from margin to margin in tiny paragraphs. The binding was falling loose, the cardboard edges frayed. A crease down the center folded the entire book in a weird angle, like he’d stuffed it into a bag or pocket at some point

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