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do with her eye, but Meadow Lark had a different way of seeing. But I shrugged and say politely, “Maybe.”
    Then she pointed upriver to where it curved and made a sandbar. “Let’s go out there. I bet there are lots of treasures stuck in those rocks.”
    I looked at where she was pointing. To get to the sandbar, you had to walk in the water up to your knees, at least, and I couldn’t do that. “Y-you can go,” I say, sloshing the water with my toes.
    She waded out into the river until the water reached the middle of her calves. “Come on out,” she called, and when I shook my head, she say, “Are you scared? I’ll come get you.”
    â€œNo, I’ll . . . keep looking here.”
    â€œWhatever you want,” she say. “But it’s just a little water.” Then she waded over to the sandbar and peered into the river.

    Beside the chocolate bits was a jar of flour, and then I turned and saw a room beyond the pantry, on the other side of the kitchen. This brand-new room smelled like leather and the forest. It had a high ceiling and a big, solid table with birds and vines carved into its sides. Three legs fanned out beneath the table, planted on an Oriental rug that was deep red, with green and orange and brown and a milk-colored white woven into it, and fringed all around the edge. A dark wooden desk gouged with pencil marks and scratches sat against the wall, and a shelf with wooden slots stood on top, stuffed with envelopes and rolled-up papers. An old adding machine also sat on the desk, and I punched a few of its keys. Two tall windows side by side looked onto a sun porch, and a radiator—the kind with pipes—sat below them. Another doorway led back to the kitchen.
    Just as I began to step through that door, Meadow Lark say, “It’s getting cold,” and I was back at the river.
    Meadow Lark stood nearby, shivering. She wrapped her arms around herself, and goose bumps dotted her arms. The shadows from the trees on the other side reached across, and the chill licked my wet feet. It was time to go, but my hands were empty. I had nothing from the water except the yellow flower bead that Meadow Lark gave me.
    â€œMaybe next time we’ll find something else,” Meadow Lark say, as if she knew exactly what I’d been thinking.
    I liked that there would be a next time, but just so she wouldn’t expect to find silver dollars and gold rings every time, I told her, “I only find something good every once in a while.”
    â€œMaybe you need to look harder.”
    And just as she say that, something fluttered on the sand near the rock—a feather as white as a baby’s eye and shorter than my thumb.
    I set it in my palm and held it out to Meadow Lark. “Here, you keep it,” I say, and noticed for the first time that her eyes were the same color brown as the river bottom when the sun shone on it.
    â€œNo, you found it, so it’s yours,” she say, waving it away.
    Just then, a puff of breeze lifted the feather off my hand, and I grabbed for it. But it was too quick and darted off.
    â€œOver there,” Meadow Lark say, pointing to a bush. She couldn’t run very fast on her slow leg, so I dashed ahead of her. The feather had caught in a bush, but just as I got close, it fluttered off, and then again, always out of my reach. I followed it around the bend, and then stopped when the old covered bridge come into view, dark and menacing in the green of the woods. I saw the bank leading to its mouth and tall weeds growing on what used to be a path.
    The feather quivered on a branch just a few feet away, teasing. I was already too close to the bridge, and the murky sight of it was enough to plant dread in my stomach. I grabbed for the feather and pinched it in my fingers. Then I carried it back to the beach and showed Meadow Lark.
    â€œIt’s a perfect feather,” she say, looking close. “It’s the