‘Audrey and the Crow’ by Cadence Mandybura

Audrey was seven when she met the crow. (Seven: four fingers on one hand, three on the other, easier than trying to say it aloud.) Play was sweeter now that school was out, and Audrey spent her first morning of freedom in the half-wild acre behind her home, despite the gravelly clouds.

Last summer, Audrey had shared almost every day with Janey, her best friend since preschool. The long highway drives between their homes were easily forgotten, dissolved by morning expeditions, afternoon crafts, and campfire sleepovers. But Janey hadn’t been playing with Audrey lately, drifting instead to the girls who snickered whenever Audrey couldn’t get her words out in class.

So this year, Audrey was alone when the sky tipped and the world drummed with rain. Closer to the trees than her house, Audrey ducked under a curtain of leaves into her willow cave, scrunching close to the trunk to stay dry. She rubbed her arms and listened. No grumbles yet, just fresh washes of rainfall smacking leaves and dirt. If it thundered, she would have to go back inside.

A rustle to her left: a crow, also escaping the rain, eyed her with a flickering intelligence. Rain braided down the willow’s drooping branches, doming Audrey and the crow in the smell of leaves and damp earth.

Not wanting to startle the bird, Audrey slowly twisted the hem of her skirt. The water bunched and ran down her hands, clinging to her homemade bracelets. The crow sprayed his feathers into a ruff with a few brisk shakes. Audrey giggled.

“Caw,” said the crow, his feathers settling back into ribbon-smooth lines.

“Caw,” Audrey repeated instinctively, then grinned wide because the sound had come out so easily. She was used to words tangling in her mouth, leaving her stuck in the agony between her thoughts and her speech.