Dad drives the same way Dr. Morgan did when he left, up over the hill, the only way off Bower Hill Road now. We pass Braggy in the gravel pit, dumping rocks into the rock crusher with his front-end loader. When I was little, I thought the gravel pit was like the moon—piles of rock, craters of sand, nothing growing, not even grass, in all directions. Unlike the surface of the moon, the landscape in Braggy’s gravel pit is constantly changing. Braggy waves to us as we go by.

“Does Braggy like working in the gravel pit?” I ask Dad. What I really want to know is if Braggy minds not being a dowser.

“I never hear him complain about it. It keeps him pretty busy, that’s for sure.”

An answer that’s not exactly an answer.

As we head down Main Street past the library, I see a sign tacked to a telephone pole. Written in big black capital letters on white paper are the words:

NO WATER

NO BUSINESS

NO TOWN

Dad has his eyes on the road and doesn’t seem to notice the sign. Farther down the road there’s another one. It says:

ASK

WHO TOOK

YOUR WATER

“Look, Dad, look at the sign.”

Dad glances quickly where I point.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“It means some people will try to lay blame wherever they can when things get rough.”

Dad slows down and I wonder if he’s going to stop and take down the sign. If he does, I’ll tell him about the other one, but he picks up speed and turns down a dirt road. We drive up in front of a small house and a big, sagging barn.

In a fenced pasture next to the barn there’s a black pony with a white half-moon on its forehead. A woman in black barn boots hurries over to greet us. She has a long braid like Mom’s but hers is dark brown.

“Thank you, Harlan.” The woman looks into the bed of the truck at all the water barrels. “Dreamer will thank you, too.

“I’m Velma,” the woman says to me, “and Dreamer is my horse. She drinks eight gallons of water a day, which is a lot when you’re melting snow in pots on the stove. Horses need water to keep warm in the winter.”

“I didn’t know that,” I answer. It makes me wonder what percent of water is in a horse’s body.

“I heard about your house. I know how that is.” Velma turns her head toward the little house next to the barn. “My parents’ house got hit by lightning and burned to the ground thirty years ago. They built that house the next spring.”

“I’m sorry about your old house,” I say.