Five-year-old Nevaeh sprinted through the pack orchard, her laughter ringing like small silver bells against the rustle of the leaves. Beside her, Willow was a blur of motion, her vibrant red curls bouncing with every skip. Nevaeh's own voluminous brown hair flowed behind her like a dark silken cape as she reached out, her small fingers grazing the air just inches from Willow's tunic. The orchard was heavy with the scent of ripening life; low-hanging branches bowed under the weight of velvet-skinned peaches, tart green apples, and clusters of deep purple plums that glistened in the dappled sunlight.
"Got you!" Nevaeh shrieked, but Willow twisted away with a delighted howl of laughter, her nimble feet dancing over the fallen fruit and soft clover.
