Abigail D. Brown was like most eight-year-old girls her age:  creative, inquisitive, and precocious, though perhaps taller than some. She spent most of her summers exploring the woods behind her house. Her mother called it a “green space,” but to Abbie it was the forest, and if you called a forest by any other name, it lost some of its inherent magic. 

The early summer day began with a rainstorm that blanketed the town in a thick humidity unusual for Oregon. By midday, the humidity had b. . .

Abigail D. Brown was like most eight-year-old girls her age:  creative, inquisitive, and precocious, though perhaps taller than some. She spent most of her summers exploring the woods behind her house. Her mother called it a “green space,” but to Abbie it was the forest, and if you called a forest by any other name, it lost some of its inherent magic. 

The early summer day began with a rainstorm that blanketed the town in a thick humidity unusual for Oregon. By midday, the humidity had b. . .