Finally his father spoke, his big rough hand stroking his wife's hair and his eyes downcast watching the motion. "They found the Burke girl this morning down in the creek."

"No," he said, finding his voice. "Leslie wouldn't drown. She could swim real good."

Something whirled around inside Jess's head. He opened his mouth, but it was dry and no words came out. He jerked his head from one face to the next for someone to help him.

"That old rope you kids been swinging on broke." His father went quietly and relentlessly on. "They think she musta hit her head on something when she fell."

His father looked up. "I'm real sorry, boy."

"No," he said straight at May Belle. "It's a lie. Leslie ain't dead." He turned around and ran out the door, letting the screen bang sharply against the house. He ran down the gravel to the main road and then started running west away from Washington and Millsburg -- and the old Perkins place. An approaching car beeped and swerved and beeped again, but he hardly noticed.

"No." He shook his head. "No."

"No!" Jess was yelling now. "I don't believe you. You're lying to me!" He looked around again wildly for someone to agree. But they all had their heads down except May Belle, whose eyes were wide with terror. But, Leslie, what if you die?

Behind him came the baripity of the pickup, but he couldn't turn around. He tried to run faster, but his father passed him and stopped the pickup just ahead, then jumped out and ran back. He picked Jess up in his arms as though he were a baby. For the first few seconds Jess kicked and struggled against the strong arms. Then Jess gave himself over to the numbness that was buzzing to be let out from a corner of his brain.

Leslie -- dead -- girl friend -- rope -- broke -- fell -- you -- you -- you. The words exploded in his head like corn against the sides of the popper. God -- dead -- you -- Leslie -- dead -- you. He ran until he was stumbling but he kept on, afraid to stop. Knowing somehow that running was the only thing that could keep Leslie from being dead. It was up to him. He had to keep going.

He leaned his weight upon the door of the pickup and let his head thud-thud against the window. His father drove stiffly without speaking, though once he cleared his throat as though he were going to say something, but he glanced at Jess and closed his mouth.

He was awake, jerked suddenly into consciousness in the black stillness of the house. He sat up, stiff and shivering, although he was fully dressed from his windbreaker down to his sneakers. He could hear the breathing of the little girls in the next bed, strangely loud and uneven in the quiet. Some dream must have awakened him, but he could not remember it. He could only remember the mood of dread it had brought with it. Through the curtainless window he could see the lopsided moon with hundreds of stars dancing in bright attendance.

When they pulled up at his house, his father sat quietly, and Jess could feel the man's uncertainty, so he opened the door and got out, and with the numbness flooding through him, went in and lay down on his bed.

It came into his mind that someone had told him that Leslie was dead. But he knew now that that had been part of the dreadful dream. Leslie could not die any more than he himself could die. But the words turned over uneasily in his mind like leaves stirred up by a cold wind. If he got up now and went down to the old Perkins place and knocked on the door, Leslie would come to open it, P. T. jumping at her heels like a star around the moon. It was a beautiful night. Perhaps they could run over the hill and across the fields to the stream and swing themselves into Terabithia.

S'OK, Leslie would say. I've been to Washington thousands of times.

They had never been there in the dark. But there was enough moon for them to find their way into the castle, and he could tell her about his day in Washington. And apologize. It had been so dumb of him not to ask if Leslie could go, too. He and Leslie and Miss Edmunds could have had a wonderful day -- different, of course, from the day he and Miss Edmunds had had, but still good, still perfect. Miss Edmunds and Leslie liked each other a lot. It would have been fun to have Leslie along. I'm really sorry, Leslie. He took off his jacket and sneakers, and crawled under the covers. I was dumb not to think of asking.

Did you ever see the buffalo hunt?

Somehow it was the one thing in all Washington that Leslie had never seen, and so he could tell her about it, describing the tiny beasts hurtling to destruction.

His stomach felt suddenly cold. It had something to do with the buffalo, with falling, with death. With the reason he had not remembered to ask if Leslie could go with them to Washington today.

The coldness threatened to spread up from his stomach. He turned over and lay on it. Perhaps it would be better not to think about Leslie right now. He would go to see her the first thing in the morning and explain everything. He could explain it better in the daytime when he had shaken off the effects of his unremembered nightmare.

You know something weird?

What? Leslie asked.

He put his mind to remembering the day in Washington, working on details of pictures and statues, dredging up the sound of Miss Edmunds' voice, recalling his own exact words and her exact answers. Occasionally into the corner of his mind's vision would come a sensation of falling, but he pushed it away with the view of another picture or the sound of another conversation.

Tomorrow he must share it all with Leslie.

I was scared to come to Terabithia this morning.

The next thing he was aware of was the sun streaming through the window. The little girls' bed was only rumpled covers, and there was movement and quiet talking from the kitchen.

His mother looked up quickly from the stove at the sound of him. Her face was set for a question, but she just nodded her head at him.

Lord! Poor Miss Bessie. He'd forgotten all about her last night, and now it must be late. He felt for his sneakers and shoved his feet over the heels without tying the laces.

"Your daddy's milking her."

The coldness began to come back. "I forgot Miss Bessie."

"I forgot last night, too."

She kept nodding her head. "Your daddy did it for you." But it wasn't an accusation. "You feel like some breakfast?"

Maybe that was why his stomach felt so odd. He hadn't had anything to eat since the ice cream Miss Edmunds had bought them at Millsburg on the way home. Brenda and Ellie stared up at him from the table. The little girls turned from their cartoon show at the TV to look at him and then turned quickly back.

He sat down on the bench. His mother put a plateful of pancakes in front of him. He couldn't remember the last time she had made pancakes. He doused them with syrup and began to eat. They tasted marvelous.

"If Jimmy Dicks died, I wouldn't be able to eat a bite."

Ellie was looking first at Mrs. Aarons and then at Brenda. "Boys ain't supposed to cry at times like this. Are they, Momma?"

"Well, Momma, he's just sitting there eating pancakes like nothing happened. I'd be crying my eyes out."

He could hear them talking but they were farther away than the memory of the dream. He ate and he chewed and he swallowed, and when his mother put three more pancakes on his plate, he ate them, too.

"You don't even care. Do you?" Brenda was watching him from across the table.

"Will you shut your mouth, Brenda Aarons?" His mother sprang forward, the pancake turner held threateningly high.

He looked at her puzzled, his mouth full.

His father came in with the milk. He poured it carefully into the empty cider jugs and put them into the refrigerator. Then he washed his hands at the sink and came to the table. As he passed Jess, he put his hand lightly on the boy's shoulder. He wasn't angry about the milking.

The coldness curled up inside of him and flopped over.

"Well, it don't seem right for him to be sitting there eating like a brood sow."

"I'm telling you, Brenda, if you don't shut your mouth…"

"Your mother and I thought we ought to go down to the neighbors and pay respects." His father cleared his throat. "I think it would be fitting for you to come, too." He stopped again. "Seeing's you was the one that really knowed the little girl."

Jess was only dimly aware that his parents were looking at each other and then at him. Mrs. Aarons gave Brenda a hard look and gave Mr. Aarons a look which was to say that Brenda was to be kept quiet, but Jess was only thinking of how good the pancakes had been and hoping his mother would put down some more in front of him. He knew somehow that he shouldn't ask for more, but he was disappointed that she didn't give him any. He thought, then, that he should get up and leave the table, but he wasn't sure where he was supposed to go or what he was supposed to do.

Jess tried to understand what his father was saying to him, but he felt stupid. "What little girl?" He mumbled it, knowing it was the wrong thing to ask. Ellie and Brenda both gasped.

His father leaned down the table and put his big hand on top of Jess's hand. He gave his wife a quick, troubled look. But she just stood there, her eyes full of pain, saying nothing.

"You ready to go now?" His father got up quickly. His mother took off her apron and patted her hair.

"Your friend Leslie is dead, Jesse. You need to understand that."

Jess slid his hand out from under his father's. He got up from the table.

"I know it ain't a easy thing --" Jess could hear his father speaking as he went into the bedroom. He came back out with his windbreaker on.

May Belle jumped up from the rug. "I wanta go, too," she said. "I never seen a dead person before."

"No!" May Belle sat down again as though slapped down by her mother's voice.

"We don't even know where she's laid out at, May Belle," Mr. Aarons said more gently.