The monsoon had swollen the little river that cut between Aarav's village and the morning market on the far bank. Dadu stood ankle-deep at the water's edge, studying the brown current the way he once studied the sea.

"We'll cross here," Dadu said, pointing to a wide, slow stretch. "Hold my hand. Step where I step. The bottom is firm along this line."

But Aarav had spotted what looked like a shorter way — a row of stones jutting just above the water further down. "It's faster there, Dadu. I can hop straight across. I don't need to hold anyone's hand. I'm not a baby."

Dadu looked at him steadily. "Those stones are mossy, and the current pulls hard behind them. I have crossed this river since before your father was born. Trust me, and stay close."

Aarav's chest went tight and proud. "I can do it myself," he muttered, and started for the stones.

He made it to the first one. He made it to the second. On the third his foot slid on the green slime and shot out from under him, and suddenly the cold water had him, spinning him, dragging at his clothes. He gasped, swallowed river, flailed for anything solid.

A strong, weathered hand closed around his wrist. Dadu had waded straight in after him, planting his feet wide against the pull, and he hauled Aarav up coughing onto the bank.

They sat dripping in the sun until Aarav stopped shaking.

"I'm sorry," Aarav whispered. "I thought I knew better."

Dadu wrung out his shirt without anger. "The river isn't the problem, my boy. The river can be crossed. Hundreds of us cross it every day. The trouble was here —" he tapped Aarav's chest, "— the little voice that said, 'I won't listen, I don't need anyone.' That voice will sink you faster than any current. There is no shame in being guided across the rough water. The only shame is being too proud to take the hand that's reaching for you."