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Brown willow crosses all the way to my fingertips, with living green threaded through parts of the weave. I close one hand and open it again. The finer strands at my joints yield with the movement and spring back when I straighten them.

Nothing moves unless I decide to move it.

I take a step.

That is more complicated.

My weight goes forward too quickly, and I catch myself against the counter hard enough to make a cup jump beside the sink. Laura moves toward me, then stops before touching me.

I straighten more slowly.

“Walking,” I say.

“Yes.”

“Bad.”

Laura laughs.

Warmth spreads through my hands.

I do not understand why her laughter changes anything inside me. I only know I like hearing it.

“It will get easier,” she says.

I take another step. My weight stays under me this time. “Better.”

“Definitely.”

Laura reaches for a glass. “Let’s try something else.”

The instant she turns on the faucet, something in my forearms tightens toward the sound.

“Water?”

“Yes.”

She fills the glass and holds it out. “Careful. You’re stronger than you think.”

I take it slowly. My fingers still press too hard, and Laura touches one fingertip to the side of the glass.

“Less.”

I ease my grip.

Water enters my mouth and sinks directly into the living weave. Coolness moves through my throat, chest and shoulders, loosening places I had not known were tight. By the time it reaches my hands, tiny green tips near my wrist have begun to uncurl.

Laura leans closer. “Oh.”

I look at them.

“Good.”

I finish the water and hold out the glass.

“More.”

The second glass is even better because I know what is coming. Water is excellent.