“Okay, Adam.”

“You live under a bridge!”

“I know.”

“You wouldn’t understand!”

“Fine, I don’t understand!”

He stood up; he scrambled up the side of the dry riverbed. “I’m going to get coffee.”

“Is Starbucks even open? The Tragedy—”

“Starbucks is always open!”

“I’m sorry I shouted at you,” Adam said.

She was lying in the darkest part of the mud. If she thought he couldn’t see her, she was wrong. He’d gotten really good at seeing her.

“I brought Frappuccinos . . .”

He walked to the edge of the riverbed and set down a drink carrier and an armful of snacks. There were chocolate-dipped graham crackers. And bagel balls with cream cheese in the middle. And special coffee-fighting breath mints.

Then he sat back from the pile. In case she didn’t want to come anywhere near him. “I got Java Chip and Midnight Mint Mocha. I’d pick the mint.”

She was lying on her back. He could see the mud rising and cracking with her breath.

“The worst part of living on the road,” he said, as evenly as he could, “isn’t the crows. Or the Collapses—you’ve probably heard about the Collapses. It isn’t even the Tragedies . . .”

Her eyes were closed.

“The worst part of living on the road,” he said, not very evenly, “is that you can’t fall down. If you fall down, you fall off.” No, that wasn’t true. He’d never lied to her. “If you fall down, they push you off. If someone falls, we push—”

Adam leaned forward. His elbows were on his knees, his head was hanging. He was—he couldn’t stop— He heard her dragging herself through what was left of the sludge. A heavy slither.

He didn’t look up. He didn’t want her to see him like this.

She pulled herself between his ankles.

She rested her head on the ground beneath his tears.

“There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Coffee first,” she said, “then talk.”

He was hurrying down the path, skidding on the gravel. He was late. He’d been getting something ready.

She was in the middle of the riverbed, where there was still a little mud. Her arms were reaching out to him. “Remember yesterday when I said I don’t need coffee? That was wrong—I do need coffee. You can never stop bringing me coffee, Adam. I’ve just cursed you, sorry.”

He held out two iced drinks. “I didn’t think bridge trolls could curse people.”

She took the macchiato. “Hmm. I guess you’re right—that’s fairies, isn’t it? Why do fairies get all the fun?”

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to keep coming. That wasn’t a real curse.”

“I know. I come because I want to come.”

“Good.” She started to burrow back into her patch of muck.

“Wait—” He caught her by the wrist. (It was undoubtedly a wrist.)

Her eyes whipped up. Her lips pulled back. She hissed.

Adam let go—but he didn’t look away. He sat down in the mud with her. “Please wait. I want to talk to you . . . This is where I would say your name if I knew it. For emphasis.”

“So noted,” she said. She was still sort of hissing.

“I would say your name, and then I would say—I come here every day, because I want to come here. Because I want to see you.”

“I know that. Adam.”

“You do?”

“Well, I didn’t figure you enjoyed the smell. Or the view.”

(The view from the riverbed was dismal. The fact that it hasn’t been mentioned yet only proves that point; it was exactly the sort of thing you couldn’t see from the road.) “I have a house,” he said, getting back on track. She was always pulling him off track.

“You told me about it once. You said it was safe.”

“Yes. I have a safe house with a soft bed. I have a warm hearth. Fresh bread, every day. Running water.”

She’d pulled her arm away, but she was still there, peeking out at him from behind long, dirt-caked ropes of hair.

“It’s right on the road,” he said. “The smoothest part of it.”

“You’re very lucky,” she said.

“You could be lucky!” He hadn’t meant to shout it. “Darling . . . ,” he whispered. “I could make you lucky.”

She was hidden behind the ropes. “You shouldn’t call me that.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d tell me your name.”

She was being very still. Adam understood that he should be still, too. That they were both trying not to crack.

She wrapped her finger-like things around his ankle. They really were webbed. “Adam,” she said, “I can’t live on the road. I’m a bridge troll.”

“I could build a bridge,” he said. He wasn’t sure where.

“Don’t be stupid,” she said.

“Don’t be mean.”

“I’m a bridge troll!”