Something’s wrong with Papa. The doctors at the hospital said so. It’s cancer or something. We all crowded into the tiny room, holding his hand, while men in white suits waited by the door with papers.

Mama signed for me since I was too young. I didn’t need to read the papers to know what they meant. They meant we were allowed to cry now.

But I didn’t want to.

I tried telling Mama as she sobbed into Papa’s shirt. She just waved me away, so I left. I slipped out of the hospital and ran to the creek.

Elias was already there. His face was streaked with dirt, like he’d been playing for a while. When he saw me, he handed me a stick and pointed beyond the trees.

“I saw a butterfly.” he said.

“There ain’t no butterflies up here.” I reminded him, grabbing the stick and tracing lines in the wet earth.

Elias hopped onto a rock, squinting into the distance. “But I saw one. It was blue and brown and yellow. Kinda reminded me of you.”

I shook my head. He was always saying things like that. Everyone was. Even Mama. I knew I was different. My eyes weren’t just blue—they were blue and brown. And my hair was blonde, the only one in my family.

Blonde like the rich folk up on the hill.

When I was born, Papa thought Mama had cheated. He wouldn’t even hold me for a week. But then, I guess I started looking like him, so he stopped saying it out loud.

After a while, Elias asked, “Did your dad die yet?”

I shrugged. “Must be dying right now. I left ‘cause I didn’t want to cry.”

“They make you sign the papers?”

I nodded.

“They did that when my pawpaw died. You know why?”

I shook my head.

“’Cause when you cry, your tears drain the clouds and the oceans. That’s why you gotta get permission. Can’t have people crying over stupid things, like a breakup or a cheesy movie.”

I laughed. “You come up with that yourself?”

Elias grinned. “Sure did. But it makes sense, don’t it?”

I dropped the stick and stepped back, tilting my head at the lines I had drawn.

“What is it?” Elias asked.

“A butterfly.”

He frowned. “That don’t look like a butterfly.”

I crossed my arms. “Well, how would I know?”

Just then, Mama’s voice rang through the trees. I could hear the anger in it.

“I’ll see you later.” I told Elias.

“I’ll catch one for you!” he called after me as I walked away.

-

At home, Mama was still angry, though she wouldn’t say so. She just slammed cabinets and kept mumbling.

Sara was angry too. She just stared at me. Every time I met her eyes, she rolled them.

“Your daddy would’ve wanted you there.”Mama said.

“I was—”

“No, you were off playing in that creek. How many times have I told you to stop going there?”

“I ain’t doing nothing bad.” I muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” I put my head down.

I guess I got it. She couldn’t cry no more, so she had to be angry. Cause what else can you be?

“So when’s Papa coming home?” I asked.

Sara scoffed. “He’s dead, you idiot!” Then she stormed off.

I looked at Mama. She just shook her head.

“I tell you, Rueben. You got a lot to learn about this world.”

We ate in silence. The food didn’t taste right without Papa’s loud chewing. I had to force it down.

When we were done, I helped Mama wash the dishes, then snuck back to the creek

I didn’t see Elias right away, but my drawing was still there. He had made some adjustments to it—two strange little shapes on top of its head and extra wings at the bottom.

I smiled a little, then looked around. Sometimes he liked to hide and jump out to scare me. I never got scared, but I pretended, so he’d think he was doing something right.

“Elias!” I called.

Silence.

I turned to the trees, to the spot where he’d pointed when he swore he saw a butterfly.

That’s when I saw him.

Lying still, on the other side of the creek.

A feeling like a fist clenched inside my chest. The same one I felt in the hospital, when they said Papa had cancer. I didn’t understand it then, but I knew it meant something bad.

“Elias!” I yelled.

He didn’t move.

I waded into the water, then swam. I was a good swimmer. Papa taught me when I was four.

By the time I reached him, my hands were shaking. His clothes were wet. His face was turned into the dirt. I flipped him over. His skin was blue.

“Oh no.”

I picked him up. He was light, like firewood. But I couldn’t swim back with him—not while holding him above the water. And I wouldn’t let him drown.

I laid him back down and started shaking him. “Elias, wake up.”

Nothing.

So I started crying.

I didn’t mean to. But the tears came fast and hard, like they’d been waiting for me.

And the creek—just like Elias said—started to drain.

The water slowing sunk into the earth and the blue grayed from the sky. I kept crying, even when there was nothing left to drink from the creek but mud.

Then I picked Elias up again and carried him back to the other side.

I was still crying. And it hurt. But I carried him, ‘cause he wasn’t heavy. And I knew he would’ve done the same for me.

I laid him in the sun to dry. With his eyes closed, he just looked like he was sleeping.

I crawled out of the empty creek and lay beside him, staring up at the sky.

Then something flickered at the edge of my vision.

I turned my head.

A butterfly. Blue and brown and yellow.

I smiled real big. Even though I was crying. Even though Papa was dead. Even though Elias was dead.

I smiled, ‘cause butterflies were real.