It’s best not to hope for anything too big—too wonderful—because a birthday wish can boomerang back in the worst possible way.

I blow this year’s wish toward the worn-down Blue Ridge Mountains that roll on forever like ocean waves: Let me forget Pa’s mining accident for an hour.

A breeze tangles my long hair, whispering a reply I can’t understand.

Tension builds in the air, like right before a thunderstorm, even though there are no clouds in the sky. My skin prickles, as if my body knows something my mind doesn’t.

Hazel plants herself on Point Lookout, our favorite spot for sharing our hopes with the wind. “What’d you wish for?”

“Can’t say. It won’t come true if I do.” I say, leaning my head on her shoulder.

Hawks circle above, their wings catching the wind. I fling out my arms and pretend to soar with the birds over the patchwork quilt of dairy farms, cornfields, and homesteads tucked into the valley below.

The words wings, slip, blades, fly crackle against each other in my mind before exploding like fireworks into a poem that comes out of nowhere. I say aloud:

“When wings slip free
from my shoulder blades,   
I’ll finally learn to fly.”

An electric pulse sears through my spine and upper back. My shoulders tingle as if wings might actually tear through muscle and skin.

I knead my shoulders, and the odd sensation dissipates. Probably twinged some muscles reaching into the huckleberry bushes earlier.

Hazel grins, her gingham dress billowing behind her. “Not half bad…for a poem.”

Before I can respond, a gust pushes me close to the edge. I teeter, frantically waving my arms for balance. The jagged boulders below blur, smearing the valley into a murky watercolor.

“Ro! Watch out!” Hazel grabs my hand to drag me back, but my feet slip. I land hard on my rear, one leg dangling over the ledge.

Stones skitter down the cliffside, crashing onto the rock slabs below, their echoes rumbling through the valley.

My whole body shakes, not from the fall but from what could’ve happened. If I’d landed on the boulders like those stones, Ma would be planning my funeral instead of celebrating my twelfth birthday.

I yank my leg up and throw myself onto my back. My knapsack, with the attached fishing pole and bucket, hit the hard ground with a dull thud.

“You almost tumbled down the mountain.” Hazel’s voice is tight. “Be careful!”

My stomach twists, the huckleberries I just ate churning uncomfortably. “You’re right.” As usual. Even if I get tired of her always telling me what to do.

I pull off my sack to inspect Pa’s fishing pole. A thin crack weaves through the birchwood handle he whittled. Just one more thing of his to fall apart. How long before there is nothing left of him? My chest hurts like I’m losing him all over again.

To keep back the tears itching to break free, I sling the bag onto my back and turn away from the ledge. Grey smog puffs out of the Wispville mine on Burn Scar Mountain’s bald peak.

Everybody jokes about the coal demon smoking a pipe, but I never laugh. Sometimes, people go into the mine and never come back. Sharing my birthday with Pa’s death day makes it impossible to forget that.

My jaw clenches. I need to get away from this mine, the smoke, the memories of searching for Pa in the rubble—fast.

I sprint past the huckleberry patch to the gravel road, yelling over my shoulder, “Race you to the stream.” The fishing pole and bucket click-clack against my back while my feet pound the dirt.

Hazel runs after me. “Not fair. You got a head start.”

A Model T drives by, kicking up a cloud of dust. I cough but keep my lead.

“Shortcut through the hayfield,” Hazel calls.

I spin around and jump over the fence, my pole and bucket hitting my back. Hayseeds whap against my waist. My boots flatten purple clover as I speed up and pass Hazel, her braids and skirt flying in the wind.

Dry air wicks off my sweat. The pasture blurs and memories fade. I’m only heartbeat, breath, motion.