KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

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      “To my Heavenly Father, who didn’t respond in writing to the letter I left for Him when I was a child, but who answers each of my prayers with wisdom, power, and love.”

      Jeremiah 29: 11–13

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      A Reading Group Guide

      Discussion Questions

      Chapter 1

      Analisa Dawson stood in the center of Mulberry Park and stared at the biggest tree in the whole world, with branches that reached all the way to Heaven.

      She fingered the gnarly trunk, then looked way up to the top, where the dancing leaves poked through the cotton clouds and waved to the sun and beyond.

      It was perfect. If she put her letter high enough in the branches, God could reach it. But there was one little problem. She was going to need some help.

      She glanced across the lawn where Mrs. Richards was sitting on a green park bench under the shade of another tree—one a whole lot smaller. The nanny’s eyes were closed, her head was drooped, and her hands rested in her lap.

      Sometimes, when Mrs. Richards brought Analisa to the park and she didn’t have another lady to visit with, she dozed off while Analisa played, which is what she was doing now. But even if Analisa wanted to wake her up—and she didn’t—poor Mrs. Richards couldn’t walk very good because she had arthritis in her knees. So no way could she climb up a tree, especially that one, which meant Analisa would have to find someone else to help.

      As she searched the park, she spotted the man who always sat at the same picnic table by the winding walkway that led to the restrooms. Today he was wearing a yellow baseball cap and a green shirt with brown suspenders, and as usual, he was playing a game all by himself.

      Mrs. Richards called it chest. It didn’t seem like a fun game, though, because the man hardly ever smiled.

      He did smile and say hello once, but when she started toward him, Mrs. Richards pulled her aside and said, “Analisa, we don’t talk to strangers.”

      So she wouldn’t ask him for help.

      Trevor was here again today, sitting by the monkey bars and digging a hole in the sand. He didn’t usually talk to her. At first Analisa thought that was because she was a girl, but then she realized he didn’t play with boys very often, either.

      Mrs. Rodriguez would help, if she was here. But she only brought her children to the park in the afternoons or on Sunday mornings, after they went to Mass, which was the same as church but with a lot more candles.

      Analisa missed going to church, like she used to when she lived in Rio del Oro with her mother and father. At least people talked about God there and could answer her questions.

      It was different in California. So far, she hadn’t been able to find anyone who knew anything about Heaven. So she’d written a letter to God, which was why she had to find someone to put it in the tree.

      And the only someone she could see was Trevor.

      He wasn’t a whole lot bigger than her, but he was older and might be a good tree-climber. Besides, asking him to do a favor wasn’t the same as playing, so she walked back to the playground toward the boy.

      He wore a red shirt and jeans, and when the summer breeze blew a piece of his hair away from his forehead, she spotted a scar over his eye. She wondered what had happened to him, but knew better than to ask. Mommy had taught her not to stare at people who had something wrong with them.

      As her shadow covered him and his hole, he looked up but didn’t talk or smile.

      Analisa nibbled at her bottom lip, kicked at the sand, then cleared her throat. “Excuse me, but when you get done with your hole, can you help me do something?”

      He shrugged. “Depends. What kind of help do you want?”

      She turned and pointed toward the branches that reached clear to Heaven. “I need someone to climb that tree.”

      His gaze followed the direction of her finger, then he scrunched his face. “How come?”

      She reached under her shirt and pulled out the envelope she’d tucked into the waistband of her shorts. “I need to put this way up high.”

      Trevor glanced at the bright pink letter she’d worked hard on last night, then looked back at her. “How come you want to put it in a tree?”

      “Because I wrote it to God. And this morning at breakfast I asked Mrs. Richards if the mailman took letters to Heaven, and she said no.”

      Trevor rubbed the knuckle of his pointer finger under his nose, leaving a dirty smudge on his upper lip. She opened her mouth to tell him, so he could wipe it with his shirt, but decided not to.

      “You know,” Trevor said, “you’re wasting your time. God isn’t going to answer you.”

      “Yes, He will. If I get it high enough.” Analisa crossed her arms and shifted her weight to one foot.

      That tree was going to take her letter all the way to Heaven.

      As the sun cast a fading glow over the San Diego suburb of Fairbrook, Claire Harper ran as if the