The Otter and the Stepping Stones
The group slows where the trail runs out.
Water moves just fast enough to matter. Stones sit close, but not close enough to ignore. Someone tests one with a boot and goes. Another hops without stopping. Laughter thins as people reach the far bank and turn back to check.
“Everyone okay?”
Most nod. One person is already moving on.
Ira stays where the gravel meets water. Shoes edge forward, then back. The stones look different up close—rounder, smoother, less certain.
Ash notices. Doesn’t say anything at first. Just waits.
“This isn’t something I’ve really done,” Ira says, not looking up.
Ash nods. “That’s okay.”
They stand there a moment longer. The group is quiet now, scattered on the far side. The river keeps its pace.
The river smells cold.
Fish flash far away.
Shiny stones in a row, water slides between.
Paw reaches.
Slips.
Smooth water plays in fur.
Scramble, pull—no.
Again.
This stone, not that one.
Water sparkles, tickles whiskers.
Paw reaches.
Catches.
A warming shake.
Drops fly like stars.
Stone holds steady.
Nothing has changed.
The same stones. The same water. The same distance to the far bank.
Ash steps closer and holds out a hand—not pulling, just there.
Ira breathes once. Then places a foot on the first stone.
It shifts.
Then holds.