The sunlight is harsh on my skin while I walk to the church. I gnaw on every issue at the back of my mind. I don't have answers to the questions revolving around who I am and what I'm becoming. All I have are things I can't talk about, and things I don't want to.

Our town has superstitions, Our town has beliefs. It's a chain of communal faith that must remain unbroken. Some of it is real doctrine written in the books studied at church, like the Spring Festival we hold every year ro re-enact the scripture story of the Maiden, the Hare, and the Frost-Father as one of our main holidays. That is doctrine.

The other side of the coin is common folk belief and tradition. The parade that's part of the Spring Festival, for example, where the symbolic Hare and Maiden are brought up and down the street. Or our odd superstitions about paths in the woods. Or the tall stump by the pickup line. It's not technically doctrine, that there is a piece of God inside that will take your secrets and give you a blessing-- a treasure, a rock, some good fortune for you and yours. It's not doctrine, but everyone around here believes in it anyway. Bishop Stern has never stopped us. It's harmless.

I think back to the one time I put a message in the stump. I think about it while I walk by the school on my way to the church. It was Maryanne's fault. I wouldn't have done it on my own. Maryanne could talk me into anything. She's not here right now, not anymore, not since she went missing, and I can't get her out of my head.

I stop there, at the old stump, and try to remember what happened. What did I write, that day, when she dared me to? I had secrets, like how I listened to the radio when my family was out of the house, and nothing showed up for me the next day.

I think again of doing it now. Why not, right? What do I have to lose? I have so many secrets. Maybe this will help alleviate some of the pressure on my shoulders. I reach into my back pocket, take out the journal I pretend to keep there, tear out a page.

I DON'T BELIEVE IN ANY OF THIS.

The words are hard for me to write, but I put them down anyway, mash up and roll the paper until it's impossible to unravel and read, and shove it into the hole. There are so many pieces of paper there, damp from dew and yellow with age. Secrets, secrets-- we all have secrets around here. and we never admit them to anyone except God.

When I get to the church, there is something waiting for me on the steps. A small tuft of curly hair tied with a spring-green ribbon. It's Maryanne's. So where is the rest of her?