Charlie was overstaying his welcome. Eddie hadn’t said anything, but he was. How else could he have wound up at the Cultural Center on a Saturday afternoon babysitting a bunch of kids from Tacoma?

“Come on, Cuz. It’s just for the weekend,” Eddie had told him. “All you need to do is keep the kids together, make sure no one runs off.”

He couldn’t say no to Eddie, but something kept nagging at him. Something felt different between him and Eddie ever since that Greyfox boy came by. But then, his cousin probably just wanted his own house back. Things would get back to normal once he moved out on his own.

Charlie stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the group of children in the Winter Lodge. They were all sitting in what folks used to call “Indian style,” looking up at a storyteller dressed in regalia. The beads of her wingdress clicked as she shot imaginary arrows into the air, telling how Beaver and Eagle stole fire from the Sky People to give to Man. The story slowly came back to him as he watched her. He remembered how grossed out and thrilled he’d been that Beaver could stay alive after being half-skinned by the Sky People.

The storyteller finished by handing a beaver paw around to the kids. She told them to look for the special claw Beaver used to carry fire down to Earth. Some of the students grabbed for it, others squealed and refused to touch it. The commotion forced a grin out of Charlie. He glanced up at the children’s teacher, Ms. Martin, and was startled to find her beaming right at him. She looked so excited to be there. Her lean, pretty face was all lit up; her smooth, almond skin practically glowed against the ivory-colored ribbon dress she’d worn for the occasion. Two dark, shining braids framed her face, held in place with intricately beaded hair ornaments in colors matching the vibrant red, blue and yellow ribbons flashing across her chest and down her arms. He turned his eyes quickly back to the children.

The storyteller continued with more tales about brave Eagle and trickster Coyote; about Pahto and Wyeast, known to them as Mount Adams and Mount Hood; about the shadowy Stick-showers who kidnap small children when they stray too far into the woods at night. From the looks on their faces, Charlie didn’t think he’d be needed to keep them in their sleeping bags that evening.

After story time, the children raced outside to play. Charlie stood by the edge of the field, watching the cultural guide and the teacher lead the kids through the stick game and ring-and-pin, then red rover and tug of war. Yelling and cheering floated over the cloud of dust kicked up by their sneakers. The plumes of dry earth smelled just the same to Charlie as the last time he’d played tug-of-war himself.

It was the spring before he moved to Seattle to live with his father, at some big picnic his school put on for the end of the school year. He and Eddie were both pretty strong, and they pulled next to each other each match. One of them always seemed to know when to hold on extra tight so the other could adjust his grip. But once the teachers caught on that all the Native kids had gravitated toward the same team, they moved everyone around. Charlie felt weird holding the rope opposite Eddie. He remembered digging his toes into the rocky dirt to set his stance. The teacher yelled Go! and as Charlie grunted and pulled, he glanced up at his cousin, expecting him to pull a face or do something to make him laugh. But Eddie’s face was pinched with determination as he strained against the rope. He didn’t look at Charlie once.

Ms. Martin released the kids into free time before dinner. Some of them went into the gift shop to look at jewelry. Others stood around in small clusters giggling and whispering. Those who had smart phones sank into them, while a couple more swung from nearby trees.

Charlie noticed a red-headed boy standing by himself, very still and very close to a pine with swooping branches and long, curved needles. Did he have to remind the kid where the bathrooms were? As he approached, the boy leaned even closer to the trunk, whispered something, and slapped his hand against the tree.

“Hey,” said Charlie quietly.

The boy jumped and looked up at him. The strawberry blonde lashes framing his blue eyes were almost translucent.

Charlie smiled. He leaned forward to breathe in the sweet, vanilla scent of the pine bark. “You smell that? That’s Táp’ash, Ponderosa pine.”

The little boy stuck his nose close to the tree and sniffed.

“Pretty cool, huh?”

The boy nodded and looked up at Charlie expectantly. “Native Americans can communicate with nature, right?”

“Yeah, I suppose, in a way. You want to ask the storyteller some questions?”

“How do you communicate with trees?” the boy pressed.

Charlie shifted his weight from one leg to another. He’d told Eddie he wasn’t really an expert on all of the spiritual stuff. “So, what’s your name, kid?”

“Ricky. What’s yours?”

“Charlie.” The two shook hands. “You enjoyin’ your visit?”

“Yup.”

“Is it what you expected?”

“Well,” said the boy scrunching up his nose, “I kinda thought we’d be out in the woods or something.”

“Yeah.” He smiled. “That’s what most people think.”

“So how do you talk to trees?”

Charlie stuffed his hands into his pockets. “You’re pretty into trees, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess,” said Ricky, shrugging. “Yeah.”

“How come? What do you like about ‘em?”

“Well,” he said, lowering his voice, “I like when they move.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “When they move? Like how they blow in the wind?”

Ricky shook his head. “No, I mean, move. You know, don’t you?”

Charlie froze.

“I didn’t like it at first,” the boy said, “when they would poke me or throw things. But now . . .”

“But now?” he prodded.

“But now they help me,” said Ricky. “They lift me up, you know, when I’m climbing. And if I slip, they catch me.”

Charlie’s heart skipped a beat. “Maybe you’re just a really good climber.”

The boy shook his head.

“How about this?” Charlie glanced back at the group of children. “Maybe you could show me what you mean. There’s lots of trees to climb around here.”

A smile stole across Ricky’s lips. “Really? You believe me?”

“Well, maybe, if I could see what you’re talking about.” Charlie moved over to a twisty, grey oak with thick, broad branches. “How about this one?”

“Okay.” Ricky grunted and pulled himself up onto the lowest branch. “No one’s ever believed me.”

“No one? Who have you told?”

“Oh, just my mom and dad.” Ricky wobbled to a stand on the first branch and reached up for another one.

“Now, don’t try to fall,” warned Charlie. “We just want to see the lifting part, not the slipping and falling.”

“I know.” Ricky hopped and grabbed the limb above, swinging precariously.

“Maybe you should just stop there.”

“I’m okay,” said the boy. His shoes scuffed the trunk as he scrambled up to the second branch. Charlie braced himself for a catch as the boy climbed to a third. “What should I do now?” he asked.

“What do you mean? Aren’t you the one who knows how to make ‘em move?”

“Well, it doesn’t always work.”

“Now you tell me. Why don’t you come on down, now?”

“I’m okay.” The boy propped a hand against the bark and moved away from the trunk in a crouch. He tried to bob up and down, but the branch didn’t move. “This isn’t working.” He sat down and scooted farther out on the limb.

“Hey!” yelled Charlie.

“It’s okay!” he yelled back, moving farther and farther from the trunk.

A different voice, sharp and commanding, pierced Charlie’s ears: “Ricky!”

Charlie swiveled and saw an elderly man glaring up at the boy in the tree. In the same instant he heard the boy yell. He looked up and saw Ricky hanging from a branch ten feet above the ground, feet flailing. Charlie opened his arms and braced himself for the child’s fall. The older man’s footsteps pounded closer.

“Ricky, what the hell are you doing?” yelled the man.

The boy grunted and twisted.

“I’m right below you!” shouted Charlie. “Go get help!” he called to the old man. Charlie’s eyes remained on the boy as the footsteps thumped away. “Hold on, Ricky. Help is com—”

The cracking of wood filled his ears. Shit! But something was off. It was all happening in slow motion. The very branch that had been too thick to bounce was bending—but not breaking. The branch angled downward and to the left, amidst a shower of leaves and twigs, guiding the boy toward the closest branch below. At the same time, the lower branch rose toward Ricky until his feet came to rest on it.

Charlie stood transfixed, his arms still raised. He dimly registered the commotion of grownups and children approaching behind him. By the time they arrived, Ricky had maneuvered himself back to the trunk and begun climbing down the tree.

“Ricky!” yelled the older man.

“I’m okay, Grampa,” said the boy. “Did you see it?”

“I saw you almost kill yourself. What were you doing?”

The boy hung from the lowest branch and let go, landing neatly on his feet. “Did you see that, Charlie?” he asked. His face was bright with excitement and the last traces of fear.

“What was this, some kind of dare?” The older man gripped his grandson’s arm. “Don’t ever go up that high, you hear me?” Ricky looked over his shoulder at Charlie as his grandfather led him away.

“Sir,” said Charlie to the grandfather’s back, “I didn’t . . .” But the man wasn’t paying attention to him, and the small crowd was already heading back to the clearing.

“Thank goodness he’s safe,” breathed Ms. Martin. “But let’s not have any more students climbing this weekend, okay, Charlie?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, noting the golden flecks in her hazel eyes.

She smiled and patted his arm. “I know you didn’t mean any harm. These kids always find a way to get us into trouble, don’t they?” Her knowing smile triggered equal measures of embarrassment and relief.

One of the volunteers nodded in the direction of the old man. “That guy a chaperone?”

“Yes,” said Ms. Martin. “He’s the boy’s grandfather.”

The volunteer grunted. “No wonder the kid ran off on his own. That guy’s just been snoopin’ around the forest all afternoon, hasn’t spent more’n a minute watchin’ the kids.” The volunteer ambled away, shaking his head.

The teacher folded her hands in front of her. “Everything’s all right,” she said quietly. She and Charlie watched the last couple of people head out of the forest. She looked up at him. “Come on, let’s go eat.”

He followed her back into the clearing, watching as she herded the children into the restaurant for dinner. The late afternoon sunlight brought out reddish highlights in her long, brown hair. He tore his eyes away from her to look for any stragglers to direct inside. He was just wondering if Ricky had already gone in, when the grandfather caught his eye and scowled at him. Something about the older man itched his brain. He’d seen him before somewhere.

“Charlie, you coming?”

He hadn’t realized he’d stopped walking. Ms. Martin was halfway between him and the Cultural Center, looking back at him over her shoulder. A breeze tossed the multicolored ribbons and rippled the ivory skirt of her dress. A momentary gust pressed the cloth against the back of her legs, divulging a hint of the supple body underneath.

He cleared his throat. “Comin’.”

Don’t get sidetracked. He had to figure out who the old guy was and how to get past him to talk to the boy again. That kid was the only other person who knew anything about the movements of the trees.