The sun was going down slow and gold. Mom put a small tin pail into Noa's hands. It was dented on one side and cool to the touch. "Five windfall apples, please," she said, "for tomorrow's pie."
Out Noa went, down the garden in her wellies. The grass was soft and a little damp. At the far end stood the old apple tree, holding its last few apples up into the golden light.
Five. There in the grass lay the biggest apple, round and cool. Noa rubbed it on her jumper and held it to her nose. Sweet. Clonk, into the pail. One more good thing in the pail.
Four. This one sat in a warm patch of sun, and the sun was warm on her cheeks too. Noa stood very still for a moment, just to feel it. Then, clonk. One more good thing in the pail.
Three. The cat came padding over with its tail straight up and wound itself round her wellies, purring like a tiny kettle. In went apple three. And in went the purring as well. One more good thing in the pail.
Two. High up in the hedge, a blackbird sang the very last song of the day, three little notes and then quiet. Noa listened until it finished. Clonk. One more good thing in the pail.
One. The smallest apple, green and speckled, was hiding right by the roots. As Noa picked it up, she turned and saw the kitchen window glowing warm and yellow, and Mom waving from behind the glass. Noa waved back with the apple. One more good thing in the pail.
Up the garden she came, slow, with the apples rolling and bumping against the tin. Mom peeped in. "Five," she said. "Perfect."
Upstairs, the pail sat beside the bed, smelling of apple and grass and evening. Noa lay under the covers and counted the day quietly, the way you count sheep: sunshine, purring, blackbird, apples, Mom's wave at the window.
"All in the pail," she whispered. And then, without meaning to at all, she was fast asleep.