Maya had crossed the old footbridge over Flint Creek a hundred times, but she had never crossed it alone. Today her big brother Eli was home with a cold, and the library books were due.
The bridge was only a few boards wide. Below it, the creek rushed brown and loud from three days of rain. Maya put one hand on the rope rail and looked down. Her stomach flipped like a pancake.
"You don't have to look at the water," she told herself. "You only have to look at the boards."
She took one step. The board creaked, the way it always did. She took another. Halfway across, a gust of wind pushed the rope rail against her hand, and she froze. For a moment she thought about turning back.
Then she remembered what Eli said every single time: "The bridge has held up cows, Maya. It can hold up you." She almost laughed. She fixed her eyes on the far bank, where the library's blue roof showed through the trees, and she walked the rest of the way without stopping.
On the other side, Maya turned around and looked at the bridge. It was the same bridge it had always been. She was the one who was different.

