Ginger found the rope swing on an afternoon when she wasn’t looking for anything at all. She had wandered farther down the dirt road than usual, past the last house and through a gap in an old wire fence. Beyond it was a wide stretch of land where tall grass grew around scattered trees and the ground dipped toward a dry creek bed.

Ginger liked places like this, places that looked as though everyone else had forgotten about them. She followed the creek for a while, kicking at stones and watching little grasshoppers spring out of her way. Then she saw something hanging from the thick branch of an old tree.

It was a rope.

Ginger stopped and pushed through the grass until she could see it clearly. A weathered wooden board hung from two long ropes tied high above her head. The board was gray with age, and one corner had a crack running through it. The ropes were rough and faded, but they still looked strong.

An old rope swing.

Ginger walked around it slowly. Someone had made this. Someone had climbed that tree and tied those ropes around the branch. Someone had once sat on that wooden seat and sailed out over the creek bed. She wondered who.

She tugged one rope, then the other, and finally pulled harder. The swing held. Ginger pressed her foot against the wooden seat. It creaked, and that made her stop.

She looked up at the branch, then down at the dry creek bed below. The bank wasn’t very high, but when the swing moved forward, it would carry her right out over the drop.

That was exactly what made it interesting.

Ginger climbed onto the seat. At first, she only rocked back and forth a little, keeping one foot close to the ground. The ropes groaned softly above her.

Creeeeak.

Ginger froze, but nothing happened, so she pushed again. This time she went a little higher. The grass slipped beneath her feet, the creek bank disappeared for a second, and suddenly Ginger was hanging out over empty space.

Her stomach jumped. “Whoa!”

She swung backward and dug both feet into the dirt. For a moment she sat perfectly still. That had been scary.

It had also been wonderful.

Ginger backed up as far as the ropes would allow. She wrapped both hands tightly around them, lifted her feet, and pushed off. Out she went. The wind rushed against her face, and her hair flew behind her. For one glorious second she was far beyond the edge of the creek bank with nothing beneath her but air.

Then she swept backward, laughing. She pushed again, harder this time, and went higher. Back and forth she flew until the old swing seemed to remember exactly what it had been made to do.

Then Ginger heard a sound she hadn’t heard before.

Crack.

The swing jerked sideways. Ginger screamed and grabbed the ropes as tightly as she could. One corner of the wooden seat had split farther along the old crack.

She swung backward toward the bank, jumped off, and landed hard on her knees in the grass. The empty swing sailed away from her as Ginger stared at it. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.

“That was close.”

She crawled over and examined the seat. The wood hadn’t broken completely, but another ride might do it. Ginger knew what she should do. She should leave it alone.

She also knew what she wanted to do.

Fix it.

Ginger hurried home and returned with a small hammer, a few nails, a short piece of board she had found in the shed, and more confidence than actual knowledge about repairing rope swings. She placed the board underneath the cracked seat and hammered in the first nail.

It bent sideways.

She pulled it out and tried again. The second nail went in crooked, so she hammered it flat and decided it counted. By the fourth nail, Ginger had figured out that holding the hammer closer to the end gave her a better swing. Soon the extra piece of wood was fastened firmly beneath the old seat.

Ginger stood back and admired her work. It wasn’t pretty. One nail stuck out a little, the board underneath didn’t match the seat, and everything leaned slightly to one side.

But it looked stronger.

Ginger pulled on the ropes again and pressed down on the seat. Then she sat on it without swinging. Nothing cracked. She pushed gently, then a little harder.

The swing held.

Ginger grinned. Soon she was sailing out over the creek bed again, her legs stretched toward the sky. She imagined all the children who might have ridden the swing before her. Maybe a boy had swung there fifty years ago. Maybe a girl had discovered it just as Ginger had. Maybe someone had once gone so high that their toes nearly touched the leaves.

There was no way to know, and Ginger liked that. Some adventures came with maps and directions. The best ones sometimes waited quietly in tall grass until somebody curious enough wandered by.

As the sun began dropping lower, Ginger gave the swing one last push. She flew out over the creek bed, higher than she had gone all afternoon. For just a moment, Ginger let go with one hand, then the other, and stretched both arms wide.

She was flying.

“GINGER!”

A voice called faintly from far away. Ginger grabbed the ropes again.

Apparently, even flying had a supper time.

She dragged her feet until the swing slowed, jumped off, and started toward home. After a few steps, she turned around.

The old rope swing hung motionless beneath the tree, waiting.

Ginger smiled. She had a feeling it wouldn’t be forgotten anymore.