The bridge had been condemned for years, but no one had the heart to tear it down. Its iron ribs still held the river in a kind of regard.

As children we crossed it on dares, counting the gaps between planks. The number changed with every recount, as if the bridge were deciding in real time whether to let us pass.

Last winter I walked to the middle and stopped. The water below was the color of old mirrors. I understood then why the bridge stayed: it was waiting for someone to need it.