Mrs. Kay lets Birdie climb the ladder, too, as long as I’m behind her, although I don’t think Birdie really needs my help. She’s never been afraid of heights. Once she began walking, instead of digging for rocks like me or looking for things on the ground like Mom, Birdie surprised everyone by turning her face to the sky.

“Got it.” Birdie pulls the red book off the shelf and climbs back down with one hand on the ladder and one hand holding the book. She puts it on Mrs. Kay’s desk. Mrs. Kay is not much taller than I am, and when she sits behind the big wooden desk, she looks even smaller.

“The Arabian Nights! Good choice, Birdie.” Mrs. Kay stamps the inside and pushes it back across the desk to Birdie.

“Red,” Birdie says with a big smile.

“You know, Birdie, you can take out more than one book. There are new books on the table there.” Mrs. Kay points to the children’s area, the way she does every week, even though we all know Birdie only wants one book and she wants to climb the ladder to get it. For the first time, it occurs to me that there’s always a red book sticking out from a shelf that’s low enough for Birdie to see but still high enough to climb to.

“Big red,” Birdie says.

Then she points to the calendar on Mrs. Kay’s desk. It’s the kind where you tear off each day when it’s done.

“Two candle,” Birdie says.

“Yes!” I say. Birdie is right. The calendar says 2-4-2002, and Birdie had a wax candle in the shape of a 2 on her last birthday cake.

I find my books on the second shelf down from the ceiling. I don’t think Mrs. Kay is surprised to see the titles, because she nods at the books, then nods at me, the son of Harlan Bower, part owner of Bower Brothers Northern Maine Well-Drilling Service.

“I hope they serve you well, Henry BOWER.” She says my last name louder than my first, as if I need a reminder that I come from the well-drilling, dowsing Bower family.

“Thank you,” I say. I like Mrs. Kay and I like that she’s a librarian whose name is also a letter of the alphabet.

“You’re welcome. You probably know your grandfather dowsed and drilled the town well for this library and the school and most of Main Street.”

“I do. Were you there when the well was drilled?” I ask Mrs. Kay.

“Yes, I was. They hit a gusher at fifty feet.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“The drilling rig is loud, of course. And everyone cheered when they hit water.”

“I mean, did you hear anything when my grandfather was dowsing? Or see anything different? Or smell anything funny?”