Page 1 of Past the Broken Bridges

Prologue

Sawyer

2005

The slow trickle of running water is how I know I’m close. Just past the two big crape myrtles blooming with pretty pink blossoms and through the magnolia bushes that always scratch my arms is a little wooden walking bridge over the tiniest stream. I tried following it once to see where the water went, but the shrubs that surround the area are too thick to get through.

Mom hates it when I explore because I always wind up coming home with stains and rips on my clothes, but Daddy says there’s a reason my name is Sawyer—I was born to explore. And since I’m brave like he is, nothing about the humid air, wild animals, or chance of getting lost scares me. I always find a way home.

Pushing past one of the shrubs that separates me from my favorite place, which is the area of streams and gardens outside the big houses I want to live in someday, I stop short when I spot a little boy leaning against one of the mossy oaks shading the area.

A startled noise escapes me, and I step back onto a twig until it snaps under the weight of my rain boot, causing me to fall backward onto the damp ground. I frown when I lift my hand and see the mud caked onto my palm.

Mom is gonna be mad again.

The shrubs part with a different set of small hands, bringing my eyes up to the boy standing in front of me on the other side. Doesn’t he know this ismysecret place? I found it months ago and never had to share it with anybody. Not even Mom or Daddy when they ask me where it is I go on my bike in the middle of the day.

I squint past the sun to get a better look at his dark-brown hair that’s similar to Daddy’s and then down to his eyes that remind me of the muddy Mississippi. I don’t know many other kids outside my new school, but he looks about the same size as the boys in my class.

He’s watching me curiously through a pair of black glasses when he finally asks, “Why are you on the ground?”

I lift my hand to show him the mess. “I fell.”

“Why’d you fall?”

I was told not to talk to strangers, which is exactly what I tell him. He smiles at that and reaches down like he’s offering to help me up, but I don’t take his hand. I push myself off the ground and wipe my hands down the front of my jeans, leaving streaks of mud on the denim.

“This is my bridge,” I tell him, crossing my arms over my chest.

He looks behind him and then back at me, pushing those glasses up his nose and smiling. “You built it?”

I blink. How could he think I built that thing when I’m only eight? “No, but it’s mine.”

His smile grows. “If you didn’t build it, isn’t it anybody’sbridge? Your name isn’t on it.”

I stand confidently. “Yes, it is.”

He watches me. “Are you SH?”

The third time I came here, I snuck one of Mom’s butter knives to carve my initials into the side of the wood. But as soon as I did it, I thought I’d get caught, so I packed up my things and biked home as fast as I could pedal before the police came after me.

“What’s that stand for?” he asks.

I press my lips together.

He looks down and kicks his sneakers, caked with dirt, on the ground. Quietly, he says, “I’m Paxton if it makes you feel any better. That way we’re not strangers.”

My parents told me to be really careful whom I trust, but they always talked about adults being the dangerous ones. Daddy sat me down and said to never go into somebody else’s vehicle or accept candy from anyone I didn’t know. But Paxton is too young to drive, and he hasn’t offered me any candy. So he can’t be so bad, right?

The girls I go to school with only ever want to play dolls and dress-up, which are boring. Maybe having a boy friend would be better.

“I’m Sawyer.”

The name has him looking back up.

“LikeTom Sawyer,” I add. “It’s a book.”

“I haven’t heard of it.”

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