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I recognize it, of course. Ben carried that book everywhere one summer. Quoted it constantly. Made me want to fling it into the river.

“He loved that one,” I say.

Briggs’s thumb moves over the cover. “Yeah.”

“You too?”

“No.”

“Then why do you look like it just punched you?”

He glances at me. “Because he tried to make me read it.”

“And?”

“I told him kings were usually rich boys with swords and daddy issues. Didn’t need five hundred pages to confirm.”

Despite everything, I laugh.

Briggs looks back at the book. “He said I was missing the point.”

“He said that to everyone.”

“He was right sometimes.”

I stand and move closer, keeping a careful few feet between us. Not because I think he’ll hurt me.

Because grief has gravity, and standing too close to someone else’s might pull mine loose.

Briggs opens the book.

Something slips from between the pages. A folded piece of paper falls to the floor.

We both look down.

I bend first, grabbing the paper before he can.

It’s old notebook paper, folded twice. The edges are soft, like it’s been handled more than once. And I know the handwriting before I even open it.

My stomach drops.

Maggie.

There are people who write like they’re afraid of the page.

Maggie never did. Her handwriting has always been dramatic, impatient, half cursive and half attack. Loops too big. Lines slanting upward like even her words were trying to escape.

My fingers tremble.

Briggs goes very still beside me.

I unfold the note.

Rain city. Don’t follow the first trail.

He cries better than he tells the truth.

Lucy knows the song, but not the words.