He nods, dazed. Lips swollen, eyes glassy. “Okay…”
I take his hand again.
We walk on like that—fingers laced, Racer trotting ahead, the river murmuring beside us.
I tell myself it’s just for today.
Just while he’s here.
But deep down, I already know I’m lying.
The kiss lingers on my lips longer than it should as we keep walking. Hand in hand. Racer trotting ahead like nothing’s changed, but everything has.
We reach the first flagged maple about twenty minutes later—big old bastard, crown thinning, bark peeling in strips. I drop my pack, pull out the binoculars, and start the survey.
“Taron,” I say, nodding toward his backpack. “You’re on notes. Take my writing pad.”
He blinks, surprised, then grins like I just handed him the keys to the kingdom. “Really? I get to be your official note-taker?”
“Don’t make me regret it.” I hand him my small spiral notebook and a pencil. “Write what I say. Exact measurements if I give ‘em. Observations. No editorializing. I know what you writers are like, always trying to put your spin on things.”
“Yes, sir.” He salutes with the pencil, playful, but there’s a spark in his eye that tells me he’s taking this seriously.
Good.
I circle the tree, checking for cankers, dead limbs, root flare issues. He follows, scribbling fast.
“Basal canker present, approximately eight inches wide, weeping at edges. Crown dieback twenty percent on north side. DBH—uh, diameter at breast height—forty-two inches.”
He repeats it back under his breath as he writes, tongue peeking out in concentration.
We move to the second tree. Healthier, but some branch rot. I mark it for pruning next week.
Third one’s the problem child—leaning hard, heartwood exposed where a storm took a chunk out years ago. Compromised. Dangerous if the next big wind hits.
“This one’s coming down,” I tell him. “Tomorrow or the day after. Full felling. Safety zone will need to be triple checked.”
The boy nods solemnly, pencil flying. “Felled. Priority.”
By the time we finish the last tree—stable, no immediate action—I’m satisfied. Two need follow-up work, one needs the Kaleb. Solid morning.
I wipe sweat from my brow. “That’s it for now. We’ll head back after lunch.”
“Lunch?” Taron perks up.
We find a flat rock near the river, sun warm on our backs. Racer flops in the shallows, cooling off. I pull out two thick ham-and-cheddar sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, hand him one.
He takes it gratefully, then reaches into his backpack.
A cascade of candy wrappers spills out—bright foil squares, crinkled cellophane, empty mini chocolate-bar packets. They flutter to the ground like confetti.
My jaw tightens.
“Taron.”
He freezes, hand halfway to another wrapper still in the bag. Looks up at me, wide-eyed.
“I…um…”