Patricia Reilly Giff

But what gave him the most satisfaction was going back through the pages to read about his first story appearing in the Saturday Evening Post.

That afternoon he'd bought Bird the largest bag of lemon drops he could find.

"He gives her candy," she had said, remembering too.

She wanted to put her head down on her knees and close her eyes. She felt the way she had years ago when she'd tumbled down the stairs and had the wind knocked out of her: a pain in the chest and stomach so strong it was hard to breathe.

The girl's mouth was chapped, tight and pinched, her skin dry. Mama would say she looked woebegone, but as Bird looked at her eyes, the word she thought of was desperate.

What was the use of writing if someone didn't read what you have to say?

If only she could have held on to that day, held on to that moment forever, grasped it in her fists so it wouldn't escape.

If only.

Outside it had begun to rain, a fine mist of a rain: fall leaves were plastered to the walkway, and puddles filled with bits of hay and coal lay in the street. A nice bit to remember for the writing. Water Street! He loved to look at it.