The village square was already crowded, thick with bodies in the summer heat. Rowan’s legs trembled as she climbed the tall crate by the well. She let her voice rise over the villagers. “We are poisoning the river.” A few heads turned. Someone laughed. “I’ve watched the mill runoff turn the water black. I’ve seen forge ash choke the stream. Trees are turning pale.” “Get down,” someone spat. The mill master rose, red-faced...

Every night at 3:33 a.m., she heard the familiar voice and laughter. “Come play.” She thought it was a recurring dream about her childhood memories filled with fireflies and sidewalk chalk. She sat up in bed and saw the loose floorboard jiggling to break free again. “Are you finally ready?” She pried open the board. She reached down into the darkness. A warm hand grasped hers. The world flipped. She was six again, barefoo...

June 1938 Papio Creek’s crystal clear water moved steadily under the Nebraska midday sun, a gentle wind skimming the surface. The Roma’s brightly painted wagons rolled along the trail and settled into the soft prairie grass near the banks. Buckets and spare harnesses clanked against the wagons’ heavy wooden sides. They stopped in a line along the creek bank. The Roma had made this stretch of land near the Papio their summ...