Chapter 1

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DEDICATION For every child brave enough to wave first.

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Mina lived on the east side of the river, where the houses were painted blue and gold, and the gardens grew sunflowers so tall they tickled the clouds.

Kofi lived on the west side of the river, where the houses had wide wooden porches, and every evening someone played drums while the sun went down.

Between them ran the Willow River, wide and slow, with a broken stone bridge right in the middle. The bridge had cracked years ago in a storm, and nobody had fixed it. East-siders drove twenty minutes around to get to the west side. West-siders drove twenty minutes the other way to get east.

Most people didn't bother.

"Why would I go to the other side?" said Mina's older brother, Darius. "Everything I need is right here."

"Nobody over there knows us," said Kofi's aunt, shaking her head. "They stay on their side, we stay on ours."

Mina thought that was silly. She liked looking across the river at sunset, when the west-side porches glowed orange and she could hear the faint tap-tap-tap of drums. She wondered what it would be like to sit on one of those porches and watch the sun go down.

Kofi thought it was silly too. He liked the way the east-side sunflowers caught the morning light, bright as a parade of tiny suns. He wondered who grew them and whether they were hard to plant.

One Saturday morning, Mina went down to the riverbank to draw pictures of the broken bridge. She brought her sketchbook and her colored pencils and sat on a flat rock near the water.

On the other side, at the very same moment, Kofi came down to the riverbank to skip stones. He had a pocketful of smooth flat ones he'd been saving all week.

Mina looked up from her drawing. Kofi looked up from his stones.

They stared at each other across the water.

Kofi waved.

Mina waved back.

"Hi!" Kofi shouted. "I'm Kofi!"

"I'm Mina!" she shouted back.

The river between them was only thirty feet wide. Close enough to see each other's faces. Close enough to hear each other's voices if they shouted. But too wide to cross without a bridge.

"What are you drawing?" Kofi called.

"The broken bridge! What are you doing?"

"Skipping stones! Watch this!" He sent a flat stone skipping across the water — one, two, three, four skips — and it landed right at Mina's feet.

Mina picked it up. It was warm and smooth.

"Nice throw!" she called. Then she had an idea. She tore a page from her sketchbook, wrapped it around the stone, and threw it back.

Kofi unfolded the paper. It was a drawing of the bridge, but not the broken one. In Mina's drawing, the bridge was whole and beautiful, with flowers growing along both sides and two small figures standing in the middle.

Kofi looked at the drawing for a long time. Then he looked up at Mina, who was standing on the other side of the river with her hands in the pockets of her overalls, looking nervous.

And that is how it began.

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Mina and Kofi met at the broken bridge every day that week.

They couldn't cross to each other's side, so they shouted plans across the water. Mina drew designs. Kofi figured out materials. They made lists by writing on paper, wrapping the paper around stones, and throwing the stones across.

"We need help," Mina said.

"Grown-ups," Kofi agreed.

This was the hard part. Because asking grown-ups for help meant convincing them that the bridge mattered.

Mina started on the east side. She went to Mr. Shahrokhi's hardware store and showed him her drawings.

"Who's going to use this bridge?" Mr. Shahrokhi asked, peering over his glasses.

"Everyone," Mina said. "People on both sides of the river."

Mr. Shahrokhi considered this. He had lived in the neighborhood for thirty years and had never once crossed the river.

"Tell you what," he said. "I'll donate the wood if you can find people to help carry it."

Kofi started on the west side. He went to Mrs. Abernathy, who was the oldest person on the block and who everyone said used to be an engineer before she retired.

"A bridge?" Mrs. Abernathy said. "You want to build a bridge?"

"Just a small one," Kofi said. "Over the broken part."

Mrs. Abernathy looked at him for a long time. Then she smiled, and her smile was like a light turning on.

"I've been waiting forty years for someone to ask," she said. "Let me get my tools."

On Saturday morning, a group gathered at the broken bridge. From the east side came Mina, her mother, Mr. Shahrokhi with a truck full of lumber, and six neighbors who were curious. From the west side came Kofi, Mrs. Abernathy with her toolbox, Kofi's aunt, and eight neighbors who wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

They stood on opposite sides of the broken bridge and looked at each other.

Nobody moved.

She picked up a plank of wood and carried it to the edge of the gap.

Mrs. Abernathy picked up another plank from the other side and did the same.

And then everyone was moving. East-siders and west-siders working toward each other from opposite ends, passing boards, hammering nails, holding ropes. Mrs. Abernathy directed the construction with the confidence of someone who had built things her whole life. Mr. Shahrokhi measured twice and cut once.

By noon, a simple wooden walkway stretched across the gap in the old stone bridge. It wasn't fancy. It wobbled a little. But it held.

Mina stood on the east end. Kofi stood on the west end.

"Ready?" Mina called.

"Ready!" Kofi called back.

They walked toward each other and met in the middle.

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After the bridge was built, things started to change.

Slowly at first. A few east-siders walked across to hear the evening drums. A few west-siders came over to see the sunflower gardens. People nodded at each other. Some said hello.

Two weeks after the bridge was built, something special happened.

Mrs. Abernathy invited the whole neighborhood — both sides — to a potluck dinner on the bridge itself. She set up a long table right across the wooden walkway, with chairs on both sides, and said, "If we can build it together, we can eat on it together."

Everyone brought something. Mr. Shahrokhi brought Persian rice with crispy tahdig. Kofi's aunt brought jollof rice and plantains. Mina's mother brought fresh naan from the bakery. Mrs. Abernathy brought her famous peach cobbler.

They sat along the table, east-siders and west-siders mixed together for the first time, passing dishes over the river that had separated them.

Mina sat next to Kofi. They had plates piled high with food from both sides of the river.

"This is good," Kofi said, pointing at the tahdig with his fork.

"This is amazing," Mina said, eating plantains.

Above them, the sky turned orange and pink. From the west side, someone started playing drums. From the east side, someone else started clapping along. The rhythm carried across the water, and soon everyone at the table was tapping their feet or nodding their heads.

Mina looked down the long table at all the faces — different colors, different ages, different stories — and thought about what her mother had said about the light of unity.

She thought maybe the light wasn't something you waited for. It was something you built, plank by plank, stone by stone, meal by meal.

"Hey Kofi," she said.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for waving."

Kofi grinned. "Thanks for waving back."

The drums played on, and the sunflowers swayed, and the bridge held steady beneath them all.

THE END

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR Crimson Ark Publishing creates stories about the bridges we build when we choose connection over separation.