The swings were different now. Plastic seats instead of rubber. A soft rubber mat underneath instead of mulch. No rocks. The city had redone the whole playground years ago.
But the oak tree was still there. Bigger. Older. Its leaves just turning red and orange at the edges.
I walked over and sat down on one of the swings.
Nigel stood behind me. Not close. A few feet back.
I looked up at the oak tree. At the sky through the leaves.
The same sky. The last thing I saw when I was eight. Blue and white, tipping upside down.
“Push me,” I said.
He didn’t move.
“Hannah…”
“Push me, Nigel.”
He was quiet for a long time.
Then I felt his hands on my back. Gentle. Barely there.
He pushed me. Just a little.
I went up. Not high. Just a little.
Then he pushed again.
And I went a little higher. And at the top, for just a second, my stomach dropped, and I wasn’t attached to anything at all.
