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The persistent April drizzle of Lark Creek transforms into a steady, rhythmic thrum against the tin roof of the Aarons' house. Jess Aarons stands by the rotary phone on the wall, the heavy black receiver pressed tight against his ear, his fingers white-knuckled around the plastic. On the other end of the line, Ms. Edmunds' voice floats through, warm, melodic, and bright—a melody of culture and possibilities that usually makes Jess's chest ache with a desperate, quiet longing. She is asking him to join her for a one-on-one trip to the National Gallery of Art in Washington, a dream trip he has envisioned a thousand times over his sketchbooks.
Yet, as she speaks, a strange, persistent coldness settles in the pit of his stomach. It isn't hesitation; it is an instinctive, quiet warning, a phantom pull drawing his gaze away from the receiver and toward the tree line beyond the muddy yard.
"I... I can't, Ms. Edmunds," Jess says, his voice surprisingly steady despite the rapid flutter of his heart. "I already made plans."
He hangs up before the silence on her end can stretch, letting out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Turning back to his small, cramped desk, he reaches into the bottom drawer and pulls out a rolled-up length of canvas. He unrolls it carefully on the scarred wood. It is a banner he spent three nights painting in secret—a vibrant, swirling crest of crimson, gold, and deep forest green, carefully covered in clear contact paper to protect the paint from the elements. It is the flag of Terabithia, meant to fly proudly from the highest branch of the sacred tree swing.
As he heads for the back door, flag tucked securely under his arm, his mother’s voice cuts through the clatter of breakfast dishes. "Jesse Oliver Aarons, you put a coat on this instant," Mrs. Aarons barks, barely looking up from the sink as she gestured wildly with a soapy sponge. "Radio said it’s gonna pour all day, and I ain't having you come back coughing up a lung."
Jess grunts, grabbing his worn hooded jacket off the hook and shoving his arms into the sleeves. He steps out into the damp, heavy air, the smell of wet pine and overturned earth hitting him immediately.
By the time he cuts through the forest path, the steady drizzle has escalated into a punishing downpour. The canopy above groans under the weight of the wind, showering him in massive, icy droplets. The quiet, trickle of a creek he usually steps over with ease has transformed into a churned, swollen brown torrent, rising rapidly past its banks and biting viciously into the muddy soil. Through the veil of rain, he spots a yellow raincoat flashing against the gray timber. Leslie.
She is already standing on the muddy bank, reaching up for the frayed hemp rope dangling from the heavy oak branch. Her short blonde hair is plastered to her forehead, but her expression is lit with that wild, fearless magic that always takes his breath away.
"Leslie! Wait!" Jess screams over the roar of the rushing water, sprinting as fast as his boots can trek through the slick mud. "Don't! The rope ain't safe in the rain!"
She doesn't turn. Either his warning is swallowed entirely by the thunderous rush of the swollen river, or she takes his panicked shout as part of the game—a challenge to be answered with her signature cheeky defiance. She wraps her slender hands high around the wet hemp, takes a running leap off the slippery bank, and launches herself into the air.
As she arcs over the violent water, she tilts her head back against the storm, closing her eyes, a radiant smile cutting through the gray gloom. Jess sees the fibers unraveling before he even hears the sound. A sickening, sharp *snap* echoes through the woods, loud as a gunshot. Time loses its shape. Jess doesn't process the thought; his body simply moves on sheer horror. He hurls the laminated flag onto the muddy bank and dives off the edge into the swollen creek, throwing himself blindly toward her falling form, desperate to catch her, to shield her, to take the impact himself.
He hits the icy water like a wall of concrete. A jagged, submerged rock catches him sharply along his left ribs, ripping through his shirt and tearing a searing path across his side. Pain flares bright and blinding, but almost instantly, Leslie’s body collides into him with heavy, breathless force. Her leg cracks hard against a thick piece of jagged driftwood swept along by the current, and a sharp, terrible gasp leaves her throat.
Jess barely feels his own bleeding side. His wide, terrified eyes lock onto the massive, sharp boulder jutting out of the foam inches from where Leslie’s head just went under. That could've been her head, the thought screams through his mind, paralyzing him. *That was almost her head.* The sheer horror of what almost happened strikes deeper than the freezing current. His limbs grow heavy as lead. All his strength, his ability to swim, his self-assurance—it all dissolves into the churning brown foam.
Adrenaline drains out of him, replaced by a suffocating, anchoring weight of despair. He feels tiny, feeble, and utterly helpless against the violence of the water. He sinks, the murky brown water closing over his nose and eyes, the cold pulling him down into the dark bed of the creek. Above the roar of the river, a raw, ragged howl of pain cuts through the air. Leslie. Jess reaches out wildly through the dark water, his fingers scraping against the rough fabric of her raincoat. He grabs hold of her, clamping his hands onto her with every ounce of strength left in his trembling body. He is an anchor, a dead weight pulling them both toward the bottom, too shattered by shock to pull himself up.
"Jess! Jess!"
He feels a sudden, sharp tug. Leslie, despite the agonizing pain radiating from her smashed leg, isn't giving up. Her hands lock onto his shoulders, her fingers digging fiercely through his wet denim jacket. She uses the floating trunk of the driftwood to brace herself, her face inches from his, pale, streaked with mud and tears, but ablaze with fierce, stubborn life. She is maneuvering them, kicking frantically with her good leg, fighting the current for the both of them.
"Stay with me!" Leslie screams into his face, her voice cracking against the storm, holding him above the tide with pure, unyielding will. "Don't sink!"