“I’m thinking anything is possible. Anything. That’s how I feel when I’m out here.”
“That’s the way it’s supposed to feel.”
“Anyway, what’s a miracle? It’s all relative,” he said. “It’s all in somebody’s head.”
“Or in their heart. Hey, how’re my babies?”
Tom peeked in the pillowcase. “Excited. They must know what’s up.”
“Well, let’s wait till Mister Raccoon is gone.”
JoLayne smiled to herself and wrapped her arms around her knees. A flight of swallows came top-gunning out of the tree line, gulping gnats. Later Tom was certain he heard the whinny of a horse, but she said no, it was just an owl.
“I’ll learn,” he promised.
“There’s another piece of land, not far from here. Once I found a bear track there.”
In the twilight Tom could barely make out her expression.
“A black bear,” she said, “not a grizzly. You’ll still need to go to Alaska for one of those.”
“Any old bear would be fine.”
She said, “It’s also for sale, that land where I saw the track. I’m not sure how many acres.”
“Clara would know.”
“Yes. She would. Come on, it’s time.”
She led him down to the creek. They walked along the bank, stopping here and there to place baby turtles in the water.
JoLayne was saying, “Did you know they can live twenty, twenty-five years? I read a paper in BioScience… ”
Whispering all this—Tom wasn’t sure why, but it seemed natural and right.
“Just think,” she said. “Twenty years from now we can sit up there and watch these guys sunning on the logs. By then they’ll be as big as army helmets, Tom, and covered with green moss. I can’t wait.”
He reached into the sack and took out the last one.
“That’s a red-belly,” she said. “You do the honors, Mr. Krome.”
He placed the tiny cooter on a flat rock. Momentarily its head emerged from the shell. Then out came the stubby curved legs.
“Watch him go,” JoLayne said. The turtle scrambled comically, like a wind-up toy, landing with a quiet plop in the stream.
“So long, sport. Have a great life.” With both hands she reached for Tom. “I need to ask you something.”
“Fire away.”
“Are you going to write a story about all this?”
“Never,” he said.
“But I was right, wasn’t I? Didn’t I tell you it’d be a good one?”
“You did. It was. But you’ll never read about it in the paper.”
“Thank you.”
“In a novel, maybe,” he said, playfully pulling free. “But not in a newspaper.”
“Tom, I’ll kill you.” She was laughing as she chased him up the hill, into the tall pines.
The End