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“I can’t find anything quite like what she wears, since she’s so ….” She made an arm gesture, as if that conveyed her meaning.
    Henry frowned. “She’s just a bit modest.”
    “Sure,” she said. She winced, rubbing at her head as she flipped the pattern so Henry could read it. She pointed out the yardage instructions. “This is the closest one I could find. You should buy at least that much, maybe a little extra, since she wears everything long.”
    With a nod, Henry hefted the load in his arms. “Thanks for this.”
    “I’m happy to help Ruth,” she said, shrugging. “She’s one of the few people in this town who is actually kind.”
    “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, juggling the fabric so he could offer a hand to shake. “I’m Henry Porter.”
    She smiled. “I know who you are. My aunt works for you. I’m Briar Steele.”
    A pang of surprise hit Henry. The sole nurse at his grandfather’s clinic, Patrice, was the girl’s aunt. Everyone in town called her Briar the Liar.
    “You don’t have to worry,” Briar said. “These are good fabrics. She’ll be able to make something nice.” 
    Henry nodded jerkily. It was just gossip, he reminded himself. And Ruth—it was obvious that her father had been upset about her talking to him. The way she’d been treated was his fault. He wanted to do something nice for her, apologize.
    He wanted to talk to her again, to see if that moment he’d experienced had been real or all in his head.
    “Well, then. It’s about time someone did something kind for her, isn’t it?” He smiled and heaved his purchases toward the counter, even asking Mr. Powell to wrap them up in white paper. Briar was gone by the time he turned around, and it suddenly occurred to Henry that he had no idea how to get this gift to Ruth without it being obvious.
    Also, he wasn’t entirely sure where she lived.
    It was possible that he had not thought this plan through very well.
     
    The white packaging crinkled in Henry’s arms as he tried and failed to walk quietly across the bridge. He knew vaguely where Ruth lived, in the way that he had an idea where most of the people of Independence Falls called home. It wasn’t too hard to figure out, for the most part, who lived on which side of the river, or which neighborhood you could find them in at the end of the day.
    He was almost certain Ruth lived in Shit Park.
    Schmidt Park, he corrected himself, feeling guilty for even thinking the other name. It was cruel, the ways that people found to make others feel inferior. There was nothing wrong with living west of the river, or in one of the trailers leftover from when the military had been setting up the now-abandoned base at the foot of Desolation. He’d been raised in one of the overlarge Victorians nestled in Highledge, the wealthiest neighborhood in town. His mother had inherited the house after his father died. She still lived there, although when he’d moved back to town, he’d purchased his own modest, two-story home in the Aspenwood neighborhood.
    Living in Denver, working hard to make rent money and pay for his books and education—it had done him a world of good. He’d grown out of a lot of his snobbery, but old habits were difficult to forget entirely, even when he really wanted to. Schmidt Park wasn’t so bad—he’d seen far more dangerous neighborhoods in Denver. It was just another place to live, really.
    Despite that, Henry didn’t exactly want people seeing him with a gift under his arm. It would make people talk, make them wonder, and he didn’t want to cause Ruth any more trouble than he already had. Some stealth was required.
    Henry pressed up against the side of one of the trailers and looked around the corner. The coast was clear. He dashed around the side, partway to the next building, when he heard a sound. He pulled up short. The crunch of nearby feet on gravel sent his heart racing, and he dove into a bush. The white papered package was