That would have to be enough.
“I counted, and it’s been a minute,” Bea announced. “So, I’m gonna climb the ladder if you don’t come down, ‘kay?”
I allowed my eyes one last sweep of the magnificent view, then swung down the ladder and landed on the platform below. At less than three feet, my three-year-old sister would have trouble scaling the ladder’s wide rungs by herself, but I didn’t want to tempt her into trying it.
Bea had been standing by the railing, her head leaning against a wooden beam as she stared glumly out at the trees, but, as I landed, she turned and planted one small hand on her hip. Her chubby face was still smudged with dirt from when she’d been helping our mother with the flowerbeds earlier, and her moss-green eyes glittered with disapproval.
“Finallyyyy,” she said, letting out a dramatic sigh.
I rolled my eyes. “Sassy. I wasn’t up therethatlong.”
“Yeah, but it’s Founders’ Day and we still gotta do my hair!” She tugged at one of her russet-brown pigtails. Then her soft brow furrowed with worry. “Is there definitely gonna be a storm?”
My stomach tensed as I nodded. “Definitely.”
She wrinkled her button nose, grimacing, and I mirrored her expression.
Founders’ Day was, as the name implied, a day our community came together to remember and celebrate our earlypioneers. We usually gathered around a fire pit on the roof of the community hall, where we feasted, danced, told stories, and gave thanks to those who had the foresight to give us all a future. I’d read about a tradition called Thanksgiving that was practiced in the old days, and I guessed it was a little like that.
All rooftop plans would be out the window this year, thanks to the storm, but, despite the impending danger, we’d still try to enjoy ourselves. Founders’ Day was too important to let the weather ruin our spirits.
“You know it only takes three minutes to do your favorite hairstyle, right?” I crouched in front of my sister and gestured for her to climb onto my back. She wrapped her arms around my neck and her small legs around my waist, while I fastened the mini harness she was wearing to the one around me.
“Takes longer if you do it properly,” she whispered loudly, directly into my ear, her small, moist lips tickling the inside of it and causing me to giggle involuntarily.
“Hey! I told you not to do that.”
She chuckled, then landed a sloppy, wet kiss against the side of my face, her arms tightening around my neck so much they almost blocked my airway.
“Calm down, you maniac,” I said, grabbing her arms and loosening them slightly. “Unless you want to go for a tumble downthere…” I pointed toward the two-hundred-foot drop to the jungle ground, just beyond the platform’s barrier. “No more Founders’ Days for either of us.”
She leaned forward to look at the drop, her face growing solemn for a moment, and then her toothy grin returned. “Okay, go monkey, go!” She kicked her feet at the sides of my waist, as if she were giddying up a horse.
Sighing, I stepped toward the edge of the deck.
Monkey.
I was pretty sure she had been sent by the gods to test me… or torment me… or something, but I had to admit that it was a sweet torment. Hopefully I’d still feel the same once she hit her teen years, though I doubted it.
I reached for one of the four zip lines that connected the lookout to the rest of our tree house network and clipped its dangling hook to my harness. Then, after double-checking Bea was securely fastened, I launched off.
Her shriek immediately pierced my eardrums—a noise they’d grown accustomed to. Despite the fact that she took a zip line at least ten times a day, traveling to and from the schoolhouse, the community hall where everyone ate meals together, or the laundry house where she helped my mother sometimes, she always screamed in excitement.
Our community formed an intricate network of tree houses, connected by occasional bridges, but zip lines were our preferred means of travel. We spent most of our lives avoiding the ground due to the predators that prowled beneath us.
This particular zip line led straight to our home, directly connecting to the lookout’s lower platform—one of the reasons I’d grown so attached to that spot. Its easy accessibility meant I'd spent countless hours there over the years, sharing picnics with family and friends, the echoes of childhood laughter still lingering in my memory.
I inhaled the crisp, fragrant air, enjoying the still-calm wind against my skin as we glided the last dozen feet, our legs dangling above the sea of leaves. When my feet hit the landing deck of our tree house—a narrow, two-story structure containing two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a living area—the heady scent of fresh flowers greeted me.
I detached myself from the zip line and carried Bea to our front door, where I set her down. I took off her harness, then mine, and set them next to the door before pushing itopen. Bouquets covered our entire living room floor, collected by my mother to decorate for Founders’ Day.
The voices of my parents spilled through the entrance of the bedroom, on the other side of the living room.
I paused. It sounded as though they were arguing, or at least, their voices carried a strained edge. My parents rarely argued, and it was a festival day. Maybe the incoming storm was getting to their nerves, too.
I picked my way across the room, careful not to crush any petals, and stopped just shy of my parents’ door.
“—the case and are we sure?” my mother was asking.
