by Jon Cohen
“What? No,” Amanda said.
“Will you guarantee you’ll never cut your thumb slicing an onion?”
“No. Harry—”
“Will you guarantee your appendix will never burst, you will never have a close call with pneumonia, or break your hip when you’re ninety-two?”
“No,” Amanda said. “And I won’t guarantee I’ll even make it to ninety-two.”
Harry nodded.
“And I won’t guarantee I’ll never slip and fall on the ice,” she said. “I won’t guarantee the house will never burn down. I won’t guarantee that Oriana will never be eaten by a deer. I won’t guarantee the sky will never fall.”
“So,” Harry said. “No guarantees.”
“No guarantees.”
Harry looked at the moon in the night sky. At the forest. At Amanda. “All the unknowns, Amanda, all the risks...will you face them with me?”
Amanda held out her hand to him. “Yes,” she said.
Harry drew her close.
From her bedroom window, peeking through the curtains, Oriana looked down upon them. In fairy tales, she never liked the part when they kissed. But this was not a fairy tale. And a kiss seemed like the perfect way to begin.
EPILOGUE
On a dark highway, speeding away from the Endless Mountains, a red Lexus, Wolf at the wheel. Heading where, he knew not.
But he wasn’t leaving empty-handed. He’d stolen something. Even more valuable than gold.
After the quarry, despair. Wolf had slept in his car, unable to leave the Endless Mountains. But what was holding him?
The windows in the car were down. Wolf leaned his head out the window, and let the night air blow back his ears. He was mirroring Brutus, beside him in the passenger seat. Brutus, leaning his massive head out the window, mouth open, tongue out, ears flapping wildly in the wind. All senses basking in liberation.
Stolen Brutus? No, Wolf had freed him.
An hour ago, Wolf had driven his Lexus back to Wynefield, opened his door to the dark shape circling the tree and called, “Here, boy.”
Brutus did not hesitate, bursting through the prison of the invisible fence, enduring, even reveling in the electric shock from the battery electrodes on his collar. It was the shock of freedom.
Now, Brutus and Wolf were in the red Lexus, on the highway. Together.
Brutus drew his head in from the window. Turned to Wolf. He so wanted to express it. So wanted to say it. But they had stolen his voice. He licked Wolf’s hand, nuzzled his shoulder. Brutus barked and barked, noiselessly, so desperate to say it.
Wolf petting that big head, trying to soothe. “I know. I know, boy. I know what you’re trying to say.”
Brutus, trying to get it out.
Wolf barked for Brutus. “Woof,” he said. “I get it, boy. You’re trying to say woof.”
No, he was not trying to say woof. Brutus, brimming with love, was trying to say something much more.
And then it came. The electric shock of freedom—it had restored something in his silenced vocal cords. Brutus felt the name leave his heart and rise from his throat. He barked it for all the world to hear. The name of his best friend.
“Wolf,” he barked. “Wolf, Wolf, Wolf!”
* * * * *
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank: Mary Hasbrouck, Molly Cohen, Dan Dalton, Ellen Meriwether, Katherine Keefe, Pete Torrey, Joe Gangemi, Stacey Himes, Theresa Park, Alex Greene, Kathy Sagan, Ben Cohen, Carrie Piccard, Steve Voelker, Steve Goldfield, Melissa Lewicki, Steve Lewicki, Merrie Lou Cohen, Anthony Spay, and Trish Haxton.
Thank you as well to all the good folks at Park Literary & Media, and MIRA, who have been so incredibly helpful.
ISBN-13: 9781488079429
Harry’s Trees
Copyright © 2018 by Jon Cohen
Grum illustration by Anthony Spay
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