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the grass, propped up against the bundle of crooked dogwood trunks. He is deep in thought. So I sit beside him under the flowered limbs and wait.
    I spin one of the soft white blooms in my hands and remember sitting on the porch swing with Mama last spring.
    “You know what’s special about these flowers?” she asks, handing me a petal from the bouquet I brought her and bending to smell its sweet breath.
    “They’re one of the first to bloom?” I guess.
    “Well, that’s special, for sure, but there’s something else,” Mama says, rubbing her smooth finger across my back to spell out the letters D-O-G-W-O-O-D. “Remember when Jesus was nailed to a cross?” I nod, never tiring of Mama’s stories. “It was made from a dogwood tree.”
    I look out into the pasture, where Mr. Sutton’s showy white dogwoods line the trail between his big house and the cabins. The trees are all small, with skinny bundles of trunks reaching out from the ground, like fingers. Mama senses my doubt and says, “I know, it seems strange, but back then, the dogwood was a strong, tall tree. Like oaks. The dogwood didn’t want to be made into the cross, so Jesus promised He would never again let the tree be used for such terrible things. From that day on, dogwoods have been small, with twisted branches. Look. See how the blossom is in the shape of the cross?”
    Mama rubs her fingers across two long petals and two short, marking my memory. “Here, in the center, you can see a crown of thorns, and here on the outer edge of each petal are bloodstains. From the nails. These flowers bloom every year, right on time, to remind us that no matter how badly someone hurts us, we have to find the strength to forgive. Do you believe that, Millie?” I close my eyes and stay quiet. No matter how much I want to, I can’t tell Mama what she needs to hear.
    Now, a year later, I almost fall asleep against the dogwood, thinking of Mama and how she loves to tell me stories, especially those from the Bible. But just as I start to dream, I realize something isn’t right. That breathing sound, the sound of life, is absent. As soon as I recognize it, the missing rhythm, I say, “Sloth?”
    No answer.
    I touch his arm. I scramble to my hands and knees, move above him and clap as loud as I can. “Wake up,” I say. And then I scream it, “Wake up! Wake up!” Nothing. He sits there, perfectly still. Perfectly peaceful. But he seems to be smiling, so I complain with a nervous laugh, “Come on, Sloth. It’s not funny.” Still, no response.
    I lean down and place my ear on his chest. No beat.
    I place my hand under his nose. No air.

CHAPTER 4
     
    Sloth is right here next to me, sitting up against the dogwood tree, and I’m sure now. He isn’t breathing. I take off, back up the hill, heading for the big house. But then my feet stop moving and my arms start shaking and I can’t take another step. I don’t want my time with Sloth to end. My best friend. My neighbor. The closest thing to a father I’ve ever had.
    I race back down to the dogwood and sit next to Sloth. I lean against the knobby trunk and let my bare calves fall into the new spring grass. I slide near and press my head onto Sloth’s bony shoulder. I hold his hand and cry.
    I stay with Sloth for more than two hours, there under the sweet-smelling limbs. Cool morning breezes chill the shady spot and bloodstained petals scoop the wind.
    I want to go with Sloth, wherever he’s gone. I don’t want to go back down the hill to his empty house, his feisty rooster, his cupboard of mice. I don’t want to go back down to Mama and Jack and sad songs and heavy boots. I don’t want to leave the sweet-smelling shade and the sweet, sweet man who tells me every day, in ways unspoken, that I am worth his time.
    When I finally run out of tears, I let go of Sloth’s rough and wrinkled hand. I walk up the hill to find Mr. Sutton, just arriving home from church, and within minutes he has a work crew wrap