I stare so hard at the big blocky words that when I look up at the ceiling of the room, I can see the black letters shaping themselves on Nana’s white-painted ceiling.

GIVE US BACK OUR WATER

I know the note was written to me.

It was my picture in the paper next to the big rock that brought the water. I didn’t even care about the reward money, as long as the meteorite was safe.

Which makes it one hundred percent my fault that James, whose mother died throwing him to safety on the ice of Eagle Lake, was hurt by a brick carrying a message meant for me. James, who stayed my best friend even though he went to school and I didn’t.

I drink the rest of the too-sweet coffee. I can’t fix broken glass or do anything to make James better, but when it’s light out tomorrow, I’m going to find a way to give back the water.

Chapter 17

The patch of red on a sandhill’s head is red skin. Adult sandhills can be 4 to 5 feet tall.

—Lynn M. Stone, Sandhill Cranes

IN THE MORNING, it’s sunny out, but the plywood covering the broken window makes it dark downstairs. One of Nana’s rag rugs covers the spot where James fell.

“How’s James?” I ask Mom.

“Wendell called this morning. James isn’t awake yet. They cleaned up the blood on the outside of his head and gave him ten stitches. But there’s also bleeding inside his head.”

“When do they think he’ll wake up?”

“They don’t know.”

“If James wakes up, can you come get me?”

“Of course I will.” Mom gives me a hug. The note in my pocket crinkles when she hugs me, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Birdie, do you want to go see the big rock?” I ask her.

“James is all gone?”

“Just until he gets better,” I answer.

Birdie takes my hand.

“Go see big hat.”

“Wow, Birdie! You’re saying lots of long sentences now!”

“Like you do, Henry.” Birdie nods.

Birdie spots the sandhill cranes before I do. Two cranes are flying over the water, wide wings flapping, their long legs stretched out behind them.

“Wahahahahahah wahahahahahah.” Birdie sings a bugle call that sounds exactly like the cranes.

“Rahahahaha rahahahaha rahahahaha,” the birds call back.

“Big birds talking to me,” Birdie says.

“HENRY. BIRDIE. COME SEE MY NEW SIGN,” Braggy yells out to us.

He’s down by the moving water, standing in front of a wooden door propped against a tree. At the top of the door there are words written in orange paint.

ENDANGERED

SANDHILL CRANES

DO NOT DISTURB