Six months old, and Kira wanted to walk. Not later. Now. Across the wide plank floor of the log cabin, her mother knelt with both arms open, waiting. That gap between them was the whole world, and Kira meant to cross it. She pushed her palms flat against the cool wood. She dug in her knees. Then she shoved herself up, wobbling, until her legs held her weight for one shaking second. "There she is," her mother said. Her voice was warm and low. She stayed on her knees, hands out, not reaching, letting Kira come. Kira leaned toward her. Her right foot slid forward an inch. Her knees buckled. She dropped hard onto her bottom, and the fall knocked a squeak out of her. She tried again. Up onto her hands. Up onto her feet. Her legs trembled like they belonged to someone else. She tipped sideways and thumped back down. Her chin wrinkled. A cry built in her chest. By the fireplace, the old Rottweiler lifted his gray muzzle. He had watched her from his rug all morning, calm and patient. Now he rose on stiff legs. He crossed the floor slow and heavy and stopped beside her. Kira grabbed a fistful of his thick fur. He did not flinch. He stood like a post, solid and warm, while she hauled herself upward hand over hand. Her feet found the floor. Her legs stopped shaking so hard. She was standing, holding the dog. Her mother laughed, soft and quick. "Smart girl." Kira looked across the room at those open arms. She let go of the fur with one hand. Then the other. For a breath she stood alone, swaying, her arms wide for balance. But standing was not walking. She could not make her feet move without something to grip. She reached for the dog again and missed. She sat down with a bump. Her mother stood. She stepped to the corner and rolled something across the floor. It was a bright baby walker, yellow and blue, with a padded seat and small wheels. She set it in front of Kira. "Here," her mother said. "You hold on. You do the walking." Kira grabbed the frame. She pulled. This time her legs stayed under her. The wheels rolled forward an inch, then two. Her feet stumbled to keep up. She was moving. But the floor was not flat. The wheels caught the edge of a woven rug and stopped dead. Kira kept leaning. The walker tipped. She lurched forward over the frame, off balance, her grip slipping, the whole thing sliding out from under her toward the hard wood.

The walker slid away and Kira went down. Her chest hit the floor and the air rushed out of her. For a moment she could not breathe. Then it came back in a wail. She rolled onto her bottom and cried, her face red, her fists shaking. Standing was the last thing she wanted now. "Oh, sweet girl." Her mother crossed the floor fast and scooped her up. She pressed Kira against her purple shirt and swayed. "You're all right. You're all right." Kira kept crying. The fall still stung. She squeezed her eyes shut and would not look at the room, the floor, or the walker lying on its side. Her mother rocked her and hummed, but the cry did not stop. The old dog watched from the rug. He rose on his stiff legs. He crossed the floor slow and heavy and stopped beside them. He leaned his big head against Kira's dangling foot. His warm nose touched her toes. Kira felt it. She opened her wet eyes. The dog looked up at her, calm, patient, his gray muzzle steady. He pushed his head against her foot again, gentle. Kira hiccuped. Her crying slowed. She reached down and grabbed a fistful of his thick fur, the way she always did. "There he is," her mother said softly. "He came to check on you." Kira held the fur and breathed. The sting faded. Her chin stopped wrinkling. She patted the dog's head, once, twice, and a small laugh broke through the last of the tears. The dog's tail thumped the floor. Her mother set her down beside him. Kira did not fuss now. She kept one hand buried in his fur and looked across the room. Then she looked up at her mother, who had backed away and knelt again with both arms open. Kira wanted to try. The fear was gone. She pulled herself up against the dog's warm side until her feet found the wood. She was standing again, calm, ready. But she wanted to go now, and the dog would not walk with her. He stood still as a post. When Kira leaned toward her mother, his fur stayed put, and her feet did not. She let go with one hand and reached into the empty air. Her mother's open arms were still too far to touch.