Our neighbors in Lowington say my grandfather and my father and Lincoln call to the water and it answers back. I’ve never heard them call, unless it was words spoken so low I couldn’t hear them.

“I don’t believe I did, Henry, but I wasn’t paying that much attention. I know your grandfather cut an apple branch to dowse with from a tree out in back of the library. Maybe these books here”—Mrs. Kay points to the books I’m holding—“will help you.”

“I hope so,” I say.

“You know, I tell folks the homeschooled boy in Lowington takes more books out of the library than anyone else.”

“You count them?” I ask her, surprised.

“I don’t have to. You’re my best customer.”

She reaches under the desk and puts a rock down in front of me, the way she does every week that I come to the library.

I look closely. I pick it up and feel its weight in my hand, and I bring it to my nose to smell if there’s any hint of the dirt it came from. It’s an easy one.

“Milky quartz,” I say. “Where did you find it?”

Mrs. Kay looks a little embarrassed.

“Right in my driveway. The plow truck kicked up some rocks.”

If I’d had the chance to name it, I would have called it cloudy quartz because the color of the rock reminds me of the clouds that fill the sky before it rains.

“I never asked you before, Henry. Do you have a favorite kind of rock?”

“I like rocks with mica in them, and rocks with quartz stripes. Rectangular rocks are good for building stone walls. And I like the big glacial erratics in Braggy’s woods. Dad says the glacier left them.”

“It sounds like you never met a rock you didn’t like! Remember, Henry,” Mrs. Kay says, “when the snow finally melts, I want to stop by and see how your stone wall is coming along.”

Birdie and I carry our books outside and look for Mom. She’s across the street past Mr. Ronnie’s Picker Palace, her cloth collecting bag over her shoulder. A long braid hangs down her back, tied at the end with a piece of Birdie’s kite string. Mom’s hair is the same color as the red fox we see at the edge of the field. Her pants are tucked into her winter boots. Mr. Ronnie stands in the doorway of his store, watching her with a frown on his face. He’s a big man with more white than black in his mustache and short beard.

“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Or should I say, one WOMAN’s trash is another man’s treasure.” Mr. Ronnie shakes his finger at Mom.