Firefly Summer by Nan Rossiter Page A

she’d just be an old, brown speckled hen!
    She pulled an old T-shirt with cranberries on it over her head—she remembered buying it at the original Cuffy’s—be-fore the store closed for a year— or was it two? She couldn’t remember. She reached for her hat, tied her sneakers, and opened the door. Immediately, she heard little paws padding across the floor as Edison scooted between her legs and out the door. “Good morning to you, too, sir,” she said with a chuckle.
    She closed the door and headed down the driveway for her daily constitutional around Great Island. She walked the trail every day—no matter what the weather—and she never grew tired of it. There was always something new to see; just the other day, she’d seen a common yellowthroat sitting right in the middle of the path, and when she knelt down to see if it was injured, it fluttered up and latched onto her finger. She decided it must have been a baby, just learning to fly and not knowing enough to be frightened.
    Birdie was always interested in hearing about the birds she saw, although she didn’t always believe her. “There aren’t any of those around here,” she’d scoffed when she’d told her she thought she saw a brown pelican. “It was probably a gannet.”
    As Remy stepped onto the trail that meandered along the coastline of the island, she remembered how her sisters had raved about her pie the night before and even asked her to make another one for the next time. “There’s no better compliment!” she’d said, smiling, “but I think I might make blueberry next time.” “That would be good too,” they’d all said, nodding as they walked to their cars, and then Birdie had tripped and almost fallen. Piper had asked her if she wanted a ride, but she’d said no, she was fine. Thinking back now, Remy wished Birdie had let Piper give her a ride. They shouldn’t have let her drive—she’d drunk the whole bottle of wine she’d brought and then she’d started in on the bottle of white she’d brought for Sailor. The problem was, if they’d tried to stop her from driving, she would’ve been furious.
    Remy stepped out into a clearing along the tip of the island—from which there was a gorgeous view of the bay—and stopped to watch a small brown-striped bird walking along the shore, its hind end bobbing up and down as it moved. “What a funny bird,” she murmured, wondering what it was. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something else move and looked up to see a red-tailed hawk watching the little unsuspecting bird, too! “Nooo!” she shouted in horror, clapping her hands and startling both the hawk and the bird. She could almost hear Birdie’s scolding voice, “ The hawk has to eat, too .”
    â€œI don’t care,” she mumbled. “He can eat somewhere else.”
    As she passed the rock outcropping she knew to be about halfway, she felt the sudden urge to use a bathroom. She hadn’t even had her tea yet! She’d only had a small glass of water, which she now regretted—water always went right through her. How do you stay hydrated when water doesn’t spend any time in your body? she wondered. When it just takes a direct route from your throat to your bladder? She looked around—she knew other people liked to walk the trail in the morning, and now that it was Memorial Day other hikers might come around the bend any moment. She trudged on, looking for a secluded spot into which she could duck and relieve herself. She hated when this happened, because now, instead of enjoying her walk, all she would think about was where she could go . . . and she worried what would happen if no opportunity presented itself. Would she make it home? She shook her head in frustration and remembered the time when she was a girl of about twelve. She’d been riding her bike