He pointed to the bulldozer. “I’ll be here until that isn’t.”

He looked younger than what I had thought he was. Definitely not my grandpa’s age, but maybe close to thirty. It was hard to tell. His long, stringy hair was receding, leaving him a large expanse of forehead. His skin was tanned and looked slightly leathery, which made me assume that before becoming Tree Man he was definitely Beach Man or at the very least Long Walks Man.

“Can I sit up there or is that missing the point?” I nodded toward a low-hanging branch.

“Be my guest. I used to sit up there all the time.”

“Like when you first started your save the tree mission?” I asked, taking my pencils out of my back pocket and tucking them into my ponytail.

“No. Growing up. I have history with this tree.”

“Did you grow up on this lot?” I set my notebook on the branch, then tried to swing up to join it. It was harder than it looked.

“Twenty acres. My parents owned it and sold it six months ago. They made a verbal agreement with the purchaser that he wouldn’t tear this tree down. It’s a hundred years old. But they didn’t get it in writing. So . . .”

“That sucks.”

“It does. Are you a reporter?” he asked, nodding to my notebook.

“Oh.” I was surprised by the question. “No, I’m an . . .” I paused, then finished with determination. “Artist. I’m an artist.”

“Cool,” he said, like he meant it.

I’d finally managed to hoist myself onto the branch and sat against the trunk, my feet dangling. “Have you been getting lots of reporters?”

“Sadly, no. I was hoping for some buzz to get more support.”

I stared up at the branches above me. They were heavy with leaves dancing in the breeze. It made the tree look alive. I pulled a pencil out of my hair and grabbed my notebook. “It’s a beautiful tree. When is it scheduled for death?”

“I’m sure they would’ve done the deed already if I weren’t here.”

“Isn’t there a way the housing development can build around it?”

“I guess when they drew up the plans they realized the road would have to come right through here.”

“And the tree is in the way.”

“Yeah.”

My conversation with Elliot came to mind, how we’d talked about what we loved enough to chain ourselves to. “You must have some great memories that involve this tree.”

“I do. I have read no less than fifty books in the exact spot you are sitting.”

“Really? I don’t think I’ve ever read in a tree. It seems like the best place to read though.”

“Now I just knit by the tree.” There was a green reusable grocery bag by his feet that he kicked as he said this.

“You knit?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never knit. What are you knitting?”

He reached down, more easily than I thought he’d be able to, being chained to a tree and all, and picked up the bag. He pulled out a multicolored hat that looked close to completion. “I’m making this.”

“Is knitting hard?”

“At first, it can be. But with practice, it gets easier.”

“Like most things.”

“Exactly.”

My phone rang in my pocket and I looked at the screen. Cooper. “Hold on a sec,” I told Tree Man. I didn’t know his name. Why had I not asked his name? I answered the phone and said to Cooper, “Wait.” Then to the man chained to the tree I said, “What’s your name? I’ve been calling you Tree Man in my head.”

He laughed. “I’m Lance.”

“Lance. I’m Abby. Okay, hold on.” To Cooper I said, “Hey.”

“Who’s Lance?” he asked.

“The man chained to the tree.”

“You’re hanging out with Tree Man?”

“Yes. I am sitting on a branch that I climbed to.”

“Wow.”

“I know.”

“So you’re actually staying there?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Don’t know. Until after bulldozing hours.”

“Bulldozing has hours?”

“I assume they work during the day. Gotta run. I’m sketching.” I hung up before he had time to respond. Had I ever hung up on Cooper like that before? I thought about calling him back to make sure he wasn’t mad about it, but didn’t. I really did need to sketch. I’d call him later.

For the next thirty minutes I sat on a branch sketching, and Lance sat on the ground knitting. As my hand moved across the page, I realized it had been a while since I hadn’t felt pressure across my shoulders while creating. The pressure of expectation. I was happy, relaxed. So I kept going. My first drawing had been of the leaves above me. Now I was focused on a one-inch section of bark and was drawing a close-up version of it.

My hand began to cramp and I stopped and stretched it. “What other stories do you have involving this tree?” I asked, filling the silence.

“My brother fell from that branch there and broke his arm.” He pointed to one above my head.

“Bones should be stronger than they are, considering they’re what holds us up.”

“I agree. Sometimes it seems we’re very fragile creatures.”

On the trunk of the tree by my ear I had noticed some carved initials. “What about this? One starts with an L. Is this you?”

He didn’t look up from his knitting. “My first kiss.”

“Right here? I’m sitting where momentous events happened in your life.”

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

“Well, when I go home tonight, I will write a strongly worded letter to . . .” I paused. “The television station? The mayor?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s not my cause, so I can’t sit out here with you for the next month or whatever, but I am good at strongly worded letters.”

“How many strongly worded letters have you written?”

“Okay, fine, it will be my first, but I wanted you to have confidence in me.”

He smiled. “I have confidence in you.”

I leaned my head back and looked at the tree towering above me again. “I can see what made you do this,” I said. “Do you mind if I take a picture of us?”

“Sure.”

I held up my camera and took a pic of the two of us—me on the branch, him right below me. I thought I’d include it in an email to my dad, but there was also someone else I wanted to send it to. Elliot.

Chaining myself to a tree for my art.

You’re chained to that tree? He responded back almost immediately.

Not really, but I just learned the story of what made him want to and remembered your chain-worthy sculpture. I still want to see it.

You’re welcome to see my art anytime.

When I got home, I flipped through the notebook of sketches I’d done. Then I combined some of each and painted a tree with its memories—a broken branch to represent the broken bone, two branches twisted into a heart shape to represent the kiss, words carved into the side for the books, and at the bottom I painted a chain. The chain represented Lance. I used one of my bigger canvases, and the tree’s branches filled every corner. Now I knew why Elliot often made trees his subject. They were gorgeous.