You are picky.

—No, that is, I’m sure you’re very open-minded (though everyone has a favorite food, as well they should); but I am letting you know, so that what follows will make a little sense, that you are Picky Minch.

You live all alone in a two-storey house with trapezoidal rooms. The furniture in those rooms is striking in its knack for concentrating so much tackiness in so few articles, but growing up you never noticed: it had always simply been there. You only realized it all of a sudden when, in that awkward silence after your dad sent you to your room so roughly, you looked around and said to yourself, Man, this place is ugly. And as we have established, your taste is no haughtier than the next person’s, so it was a fair verdict.

Next door is Ness’ House. Eventually you knocked on the door and Ness’ mom invited you inside. This was after your brother Pokey and your parents had been gone a day or two, and you were starting to get hungry; you were quite capable of cooking your own meals, of course, having done so on many evenings when your mom and dad had gone out to one elegant restaurant or another, but you had run out of food—a crow had stolen your last cookie—and your self-sufficiency did not extend to buying groceries.

You had knocked politely so as not to aggravate the dog, King, who thanked you for your thoughtfulness parenthetically, after the fashion of friendly animals, then dipped back into his nap. You patted him, sat carefully on an armchair. Your feet didn’t reach the floor. Looking around, a little awkward at being in Ness’ mom’s company without Ness—where was everybody?—you found yourself again appraising anew a familiar room. Though the furniture here was no less sparse, the effect was totally different from that created at your house. You felt very cozy, actually seeming to hear the essence of the place as a comforting musical background…Earth to Picky~ would you like to stay for dinner? Ness’ mom must have had to repeat herself. She had leant over into view, startling you, but you saw in that face a warm smile. It was not just a smear of lipstick above the chin. What do you suppose you said?

Soon, night- and dinnertime. The curtains were drawn, the lamp-light was as soft as the dog’s sleepy breathing. Expressing her pleasure at having a guest, Ness’ mom produced a fresh white tablecloth. She flourished it over the table and it billowed gently as it drifted down into place. It was nearly smooth, but every little wrinkle had a shadow snuggled up to it. She had you lay three plates around, with napkins and silverware, and in the middle you set a pad to hold the entrée, still cooking somewhere. Something smelled good. Could it be…? There were footsteps on the stairs and before you knew it there was Tracy. Hi Picky, she said, and you tried to reply but—and maybe it was because that smell was so familiar, or was it that music muffling everything?—you couldn’t manage words so you smiled and that seemed to be enough. You sat together for a moment. You honestly weren’t sure whether your feet touched the ground.

Even when you’re grown-up and this childhood is as distant as that adulthood seems now, memories from that night will be there. When you’re lonely they won’t desert you. You’re very lucky, Picky. Yes, they happened to be having your Favorite Food that night. Between savory mouthfuls and Please pass the’s, you discussed the meteorite, and King’s flea bath, and Ness’ mom’s aerobics and soap operas. And after the meal, while Ness’ mom was on the phone with Ness’ dad, Tracy walked as far as the mailbox with you. Do you remember what happened next? Don’t blush—nothing to be ashamed of, is it? and you certainly weren’t shy about it then.

Does that all begin to ring a bell? If not, ride your bike and check the left handle-bar—there it is, jangling merrily.

Do you need a bathroom break? Better stop by the Library and do your business now: you’re about to be quite busy and won’t have another chance until the end—unless you fancy the idea of making Tracy wait, a little further on, while you scamper behind a tree? Alright then. And on the way out of there, feeling refreshed, isn’t something pricking at your attention? I don’t mean the furniture this time, let’s let that lie already; nor do I refer to the Librarian, though you’d be forgiven, she’s a cutie—but hang on, remember Tracy, pig!—ah-ha: it’s the sound of a window sliding open and squeaking shut.

And sliding. And squeaking. And open. And shut…

You look into the reading room you just walked past. There’s a kid a little older than you struggling with the window, and there’s an existentialist sulking in the corner. You tell him to beat it; he shrugs and leaves. I’m kidding. No, there’s just the kid, and he’s just working up a healthy froth of frustration, not wallowing in angst. You figure it’s worth it to sacrifice a book for a good cause: you glance at the shelves for one that won’t be missed, picking Recapturing Shyness. It makes a good Atlas—that is, it holds the window open. Who knows if there’s a map in it? Anyway, the kid is awfully grateful. He leans his whole body out into space rather alarmingly and gestures for you to do the same. You rest your elbows on the windowsill and squint in the bright sunshine, trying to see what he’s so excited about. He is pointing at something and hisses, See the weather-vane? Just to the right of it—

Sure enough, as your eyes adjust you see a butterfly fluttering over the tree-house. The kid explains that the subtleties of its coloration cannot be appreciated through a pane of glass; furthermore, walking in and out of buildings causes this butterfly to teleport spontaneously, so he leans way out the window to be, as he puts it, On the safe side.

The butterfly kid is amusing, and he obviously knows a lot about his pink and white friend. He is lonely, though. To judge from his reluctance at letting you leave, he doesn’t often have someone to listen to him. He also mentions something called the Tessie Watchers, and how he is still waiting for them to call him back about starting a chapter for Magic Butterflies. He glows as he expounds for you a theory he submitted along with his petition, entitled On the Interactions of Sentient and Semi-Sentient Animals, but he is crestfallen as he acknowledges that they expressed no interest in it, either. The idea of a monkey befriending Tessie, under specified weather conditions, no less, which is central to his thesis, doesn’t make much sense to you. But you don’t say that; instead you agree with him on another argument he presents: that butterflies can calm a person. I feel better just looking at it, you say, and the butterfly kid eases back onto the floor. You shake hands. On the path back to your house, you wave to him, looking out the window.

As if by coincidence, Tracy is in her front yard. She is pacing elliptically around the flowers. Once you get closer, she stops and leans against the fence. (She’s smiling). She says, in response to your greeting, I’m just waiting for a package from Ness. Then we can go. Apparently she works for a storage company, Escargo Express. She already has a job? This aura of responsibility enriches her in your eyes; the name Escargo Express evokes an image, doesn’t it, of trains and trucks moving in all terrain and all weather, through mountains in snow and down rainy streets, past stylish cafes in far-off cities? Escargo Express, you sigh to yourself. But isn’t it the other way around—that the company and the name have only taken on such allure by their association with Tracy? Then she reveals that she wanted a job because you, Picky, seemed so mature, taking care of yourself and Pokey while your parents were out. Tracy laughs as you strive to assume a modest face.

A cardboard box with legs under it comes up the path, hesitates, and walks towards you. You and Tracy watch as it veers off course and bumps into the fence, curses, and drops the box to reveal a sweaty man in a uniform, huffing and puffing. He hands Tracy a receipt, gives you a nod, and makes his woozy way into the shade of the woods. You sure you don’t want a drink? she asks, but he shakes his head, already setting off back down the path.

You and Tracy exchange a shrug. Let’s see, she says, reading from the receipt: the Cup of Lifenoodles, the Hand-aid, and the Bicycle—is that all there? You have meanwhile unpacked the leaky take-out carton, the strange, hand-made band-aid, evidently stitched lovingly from scraps of diaper, and the dinged-up bike. The bell I told you about gives a good-natured chime when you ring it experimentally. Suddenly, you have an idea. It’s as though the bike-bell had emitted the ringing of a phone, and on the other end was someone much smarter than you, if a little smelly, who was prepared to give you an unexpected way forward.

Let’s go for a ride, you say.

Where to?

Wherever.

She smiles. You’re both so small that you, Picky, can pedal standing up while Tracy sits sideways on the seat, an arm around your waist for balance. Admittedly, this arrangement is pretty tiring for you, but you stick it out, yes siree, meandering along up the picturesque switchbacks, then giving a burst of speed to avoid a snake—and when a stray dog snaps its jaws at the spinning wheels Tracy slaps him and scolds him for his manners, making him tame again. The billboard guy’s hut goes by in a blur.

You come to the hilltop. Onett is spread out below. There’s a single giant footprint on a lower plateau; you point it out wonderingly, and she spots a butterfly by a cave mouth—but from here the butterfly is just a glint in the air, and you can smother the giant step with your little foot. You and Tracy hold hands, taking turns stepping on Giant Step, on the police station, on the arcade. Didn’t you hear music at her house? Well here, sitting beside you on the grass, is your sanctuary.

After awhile you help her up. For, though it seems like it might be tempting fate to resume things after such a delightful intermission, that idea that came to you won’t be ignored. Skirting the churned earth and sparing just a glance for the smoldering meteorite as you walk by it, you and Tracy go to have a look over the other side of the hilltop.

I feel that same trepidation, Picky, and that same excitement. Ideally, I’d be able to leave off here and trust you to do the rest. Maybe you can, and maybe you can’t. Yet although when I began I was guiding you out of necessity, now, I confess, I’d just be happy to tag along because I like you. You know what I mean, as the kid in the tree-house says.

So, what happens next?

There’s an easy slope like the one you came up, but now you get to coast downhill; instead of a dirt track to follow, there’s only grass. You go slowly because it’s a little bumpy. But then Tracy says, C’mon Picky; you give a few pedals for good measure and let the wind steal your breath, all of it laughter.

Sometimes it’s a fine thing, to let the good times fly by.

More and more trees take root as you descend into this other valley, and more hills mount up beyond. You let your momentum spend itself as you come to a flat meadow, sweeping through the tall grass and wildflowers. Tracy brushes them with her free hand as you go by; she was hugging you pretty hard before. Having described a gentle curve through it, your passage still imprinted in the grass, you leave the clearing and a woods takes you under its shelter. The silence hangs draped between the mature trees and threaded with green light, profound, a new thing after the rush of the wind. You stop.

Hushed voices don’t mean the way you’ve come isn’t still bubbling inside you; by the same token, It’s so quiet. Yeah, you reply. It feels…old. But everything is living, too. The space between trunks is wide enough; you give Tracy a go at pedaling and hold her waist awhile. You would have had to go right about now—aren’t you glad you had me to warn you? That sound on the edge of your hearing would have put the thought in your head, or other places: Tracy says, A waterfall? Yes, says a voice.

You come to a stop. You see a boulder nearby, and it grins. Then the deep, reverberating voice says, I’m a Talking Rock. I can listen, too, though. A wistfulness comes over the Talking Rock as he goes on: I haven’t seen the waterfall in ages, ever since all these trees grew up. She talks to me anyway, but it would be nice to see her again; it’s not the same as talking face to face. You and Tracy agree with him. And these trees aren’t very good company for a Rock. He ponders a moment, then says, Well, we’ve had some interesting exchanges when the wind visits, or the rain—yeah, the trees drip for days after a good rain. They’re not so bad, I guess. But they must be shy with strangers.

Tracy takes the cue and introduces herself…she digs you in the ribs…well, go on already…Good. The Talking Rock chuckles, but that sadness is still there. Tracy looks at you, imploring. You want to break it to her: It’s just a lonely old rock—but instead you say, for her sake, Can we do anything to help? He looks at you both—hard to read a rock’s expression, isn’t it?—then says, Just knowing you’re having a good time somewhere, that would make me very happy.

You say goodbye to the Talking Rock and continue on. You don’t understand what he meant, but maybe he reminds you of someone. The waterfall gets louder. You are walking the bike.

Emerging from the woods, you see where a stream cascades from a ridge above. In the shade you can perceive a mist, but where the shade ends, spray sparkles. A great outcrop of black rock rears up, diverting the stream away from the woods; even on your side of the outcrop, though, the ground is a field of sandy dirt with patches of scrub here and there. When the stream floods, it must spill around both sides of the tall stone, creating the unusual landscape. You walk a little farther from the woods and the waterfall. Below, the stream pools in the ravine, making a lake; across it, pine trees march on up the next hill. The sandy field falls steeply to an intermediate level, where there is a sort of terrace, then falls steeply again to the gravelly beach. Small waves fold over the beach at long intervals.

Gingerly, you and Tracy pick your way down the water. You don’t bother with the bike, obviously. The afternoon is getting on, but if you wanted to go further you’d have to have brought a boat, anyway. You’ve come far enough for one day. Rest a spell, skip a few stones; or come back after dinner to see everything—the wildflowers, the woods, the Talking Rock, the water—by moonlight. The sandy field, emblem of a stream striving to find her friend, might become stranger still when the screen—I mean, the world around you—rounds dusk, turns dark. The stars might be clearer this side of the meteorite, and would be reflected in the lake.

You take a pebble and make to show Tracy the skipping technique when suddenly the pebble says, Hey. You drop it in surprise. Then, apologizing, you fish it out of the shallows and set it on your palm. I’m really sorry, you say. The Talking Pebble simply laughs, a high, silky sound. Don’t mention it, friend. A little wetter, a little dryer—when you’ve been around as long as me, you’ll see it’s all one. Tracy, giggling, asks, Are you a baby Talking Rock? No, it says. In fact, I’m far older than any Talking Rock—or, at least, I’ve seen more in my time. Think about it: I used to be big, bigger than that black outcrop, bigger than that hill; and time passed, and re-passed, patiently wearing me away until, little and smooth, I’m ready. Little boy, little girl, you’ll grow up, getting bigger, yes, and then you’ll grow old, getting little again. Time compensates you differently, your nature is, let’s see, rationalis—or was it rationem capax?—basically, when you can’t do anymore, you can think, or remember, or imagine. Hopefully. Well, I’m a Talking Pebble, and I stick to talking, but now I’m ready. See what time’s given me.

And, as promised, something happens: time passes. A wave slides in; the pines tint to gold with the lowering sun; the earth, as it’s bound to do, turns a little. You all get a little older. Your eyes meet Tracy’s and you see she’s moved by this, too. Then, for some weird reason, you feel the Talking Pebble shatter. This husk turns to sand as, fully formed, a pink and white butterfly takes wing. It makes you and Tracy relax.