“Papa, Papa… Papa, come.”
“You will not fall. Trust me.”
Latty could not see. She was a blind young woman, holding her walking stick tightly as she stood at one end of the bridge. Her dress moved gently in the morning breeze. Her heart beat fast. She could hear the river below, slow but deep, whispering as if it were alive.
On the other side of the bridge stood her father.
“Come, Latty,” he called. His voice sounded gentle, almost loving.
Latty shook her head slightly.
