Her father had promised to tear it down last spring. “It’s full of rusty nails and spiders,” he’d said. But Carrie had thrown her arms around his waist and begged for one more summer. He’d relented, on one condition: she had to clean it out herself.
That was where the magic began.
Carrie didn’t answer. She slipped off her chair, walked across the grass, and climbed into the playhouse. She sat on the velvet cushion, hugged her knees, and did not cry. Not yet. carries playhouse