In the tree fort, they share secrets and tell their made up stories. If it’s especially windy they will stand center floor, goofing, arms outstretched, until a gust throws one of them off balance. Other times Peter will hold Molly’s hand and she’ll let him until her palm gets sweaty.

“Do you think you could ever marry me?” Peter asks. His throat stings like a scab that’s been pulled off too early.

“I don’t think that’s the answer.”

It unnerves him how smart Molly is, how much more mature than nine she sounds. Molly reads her older sister’s novels and already knows how sex works.

Being with Molly is a sharp stabbing needle for Peter. His body and brain are race cars shooting sparks through his veins. He concentrates on relaxing. Even though she’s sitting right beside him, Peter closes his eyes, pulls up her face from memory, and does a speedy census of the freckles on Molly’s face. He gets to forty-two and recounts.

“They say there’s nothing in Montana but trees and bears.”

“Don’t worry,” Molly says, “It’s not as if I’m going to prison.” Molly rocks her legs and sighs.

“On the map it looks long, like a diving board.”

“Florida’s the same way, just angled different.”

“But it’s warm in Florida and I’ve never seen a bear.”

She kisses him, this time fluttering her lips instead of ironing them over his. When she’s finished he’s surprised that they’re both a little out of breath.

“What’ll your dad do?” Peter asks.

“Visit when he feels like it. Mom’s boyfriend is a cowboy, not a gunslinger.” Peter’s confused because in every western he’s ever watched the men wear holsters with six-shooters. They kill each other for any old reason, over spilled whiskey or bad cards.

“I sort of hate divorce,” Peter says.

His eyes burn. He wants to be strong for her so he looks up at the sagging roof. Some boards have water marks and others spools of algae. In the corner is a spider’s web woven thick as a hair ball.

Molly takes Peter’s hand and squeezes his fingers. The pressure frightens him with its desperate urgency. “You got through it all right.”

“I guess I did,” he says.

Peter’s parents divorced a year ago. If they would have stayed together then his mother never would have moved to Florida and he would never have met Molly.

Peter feels like puking.

“Do you think life will make more sense when we’re older?” he asks.

Molly clutches him to her chest, her rabbit heart thumping hard. Tears dribble into his hair. After awhile she asks what he’s thinking.

“I was going to ask a favor.”

“Okay,” she says. Molly sits up and brushes her face with the back of her hand. She puts her hands in her lap and twirls her fingers. She looks Peter in the eye.

“When you find someone,” Peter says, “promise me you won’t give up.”