Now that it was clear that Marian would come with him—whatever mood she was going to be in was up to her—Azra eagerly bounded back to where he had last seen Sita. New snow had fallen, but it he could still see the divet where they had hunkered down: her wet, and him just trying to be helpful. "A good Samaritan" was the phrase that Marian had used. If he was being honest, that still stung. He was good—he thought, anyway—and he liked doing good, there was no pretending in the act. Perhaps Marian had some deeper reasoning for thinking that charity was all a good deed, but to Azra it was as simple as doing. He did not think about it.
What he was thinking of, now, was what it would be like to see the west side. To visit Swift River, or maybe take Annie to see Secret Woodlands or Copper Rock Creek where her mother's side of the family was from. Azra had only heard a little of these places. Yet, he couldn't help thinking of his father, permanently rooted to the east side. Would Azra want to come back? He hoped so. The west couldn't possibly be that great. Right?
"Sita!" he called out, staring at the river even though he knew she would not emerge from there.