We wait again, because we know there’s more coming. That’s how Lincoln talks. One thought at a time.

“I’m getting calls people are running sludgy water from their faucets.”

We’re all as quiet as Lincoln then, except for the creaking of the chains on Birdie’s swing. We know about the hardships that come with dry wells. Dad and Lincoln get the calls from people whose shallow-dug wells go dry in the summer and they have no water to flush toilets or take baths with, no water to put out fires, no water for cows and horses, chickens and goats and sheep. There are also people who have no wells at all and have to haul water from springs or from their neighbors’ houses.

“Some of those calls are hot-tempered” is the last thing Lincoln says before he leaves.

Dad stands by the window and pulls back the curtain. The National Guard is setting up a line of floodlights along the road. Braggy’s bulldozer is parked near the edge of the water.

“Harlan,” Nana says to Dad, “the way you’re looking out the window reminds me of when you were a little boy watching to see how much snow was falling during a blizzard. You’d be the last one to bed, staying up until it was too dark or the snow was swirling too hard to see.”

“I guess I did,” Dad admits. “I remember some pretty big storms.”

“What about me? What did I do when I was little?” I ask Nana.

“When you were a baby, Henry, what you liked best was rocks. Your mom would bring you here for a visit and set you in the shade under your great-grandfather’s apple tree. You’d sit right there and put pebbles in your mouth. You never swallowed a one. Then you’d spit them out, all wet and shiny, and pile them up like miniature rain-washed stone walls.”

“I don’t remember that,” I say, but I guess it’s true.

“Tell ME.” Birdie comes up behind me with her quilt. I didn’t realize she was listening to the stories.

“You?” I say. “I remember when you were a baby, Birdie. Your face was very red. And you screamed really loud. Then I held you up to the window so you could see the sky, and you stopped crying. Can you say ‘Henry showed me the sky’?”

“I scream,” Birdie says, and she seems satisfied with her story. She goes and lies down on the couch in the living room and covers herself with her quilt. Then she gets up again.

“Get Lilygirl,” she tells us.

Dad and I look at each other.

“I checked the house but I couldn’t find her. Where is Lilygirl?” I ask Birdie.

“Sleeping,” Birdie says.

“I looked in your bed, Birdie. She wasn’t there.”

“Mama bed,” Birdie explains.