Sitting on the spot, the boy tried to think of the sorts of things only he knew. Holding up one finger at a time, he silently made his list—where he liked to hide when the house was too noisy, the best place to catch fish, which tree the honeybees had chosen, his fondest wish, the promises he’d made, the things he dreamed about at night, what made him want to cry. Seven fingers already!
—MEADOWSWEET by C. J. Milbrandt
C. J. Milbrandt 