“That’s a nice boy you have,” Velma says to Dad. “I haven’t seen him since he was little, the time I drove down your road and stopped at the yard sale table. Is he going to be a dowser like you and join the family well-drilling business?”

I look into the space between Velma and my father, at the big barn that leans to the left, and hold my breath, waiting for the answer.

Dad hesitates a second before he speaks.

He rolls a water barrel down a wide wooden plank onto the ground. “He’s still young,” he tells Velma.

I let out my breath. Another answer that’s not exactly an answer. He doesn’t say when young becomes old enough.

“I’ll be eleven this summer,” I remind him.

“That’s not so young,” Velma comments. “I was driving my father’s team of horses when I was ten.”

Velma climbs onto the tailgate and helps Dad maneuver another water barrel down the plank.

“What did you get,” I ask her, “at our yard sale table?”

“I believe it was a bag of fiddleheads.”

After all the barrels are unloaded and we’re ready to go, Velma leans into the truck and thanks us again.

“You know, horses are picky with water, but I hear that none of the other horses around have turned up their noses at it. That’s good water you have in that stream, and I’m grateful you brought it, so don’t mind what people are saying.”

On the drive home I think about the signs on Main Street, Miles Morgan’s visit, if we will ever go to New York City, Dr. Morgan’s seventeenth-floor balcony, the way the little stone moved in my pocket, the color red I’m pretty sure I saw in Nana’s kitchen sink, that James is coming over tonight, if the town water will come back, the way Dad hesitated before he answered my question, how many times Braggy tried to dowse before he gave up, how long Velma’s barn can stand tilted the way it is, what makes a horse be picky about water—so many things I can’t give percents to how much I’m thinking about each one.

I’m so busy thinking, I don’t notice at first when Dad pulls up to the gas tanks in front of the town store. Then I hear his truck door slam.

“Can I go in while you’re getting gas?” I ask.

“Sure,” Dad says.

I like Mr. and Mrs. Gaucher’s store. I like looking at the pickled eggs in a jar, even though I wouldn’t want to eat one. There are also strange things like dried pigs’ ears for dogs to chew on and beef jerky for people that looks a little like the pigs’ ears.