An answer that’s not exactly an answer.

“Once, James gave me a stick he was using to try to dowse and I think I felt it go up instead of down. I’m not sure, though. How would I find out for sure if I’m a dowser or not?”

Lincoln picks up the axe and wipes the blade with his shirtsleeve. I wait again.

“The only way to know is to try. If you concentrate on looking for water, the end of the stick will speak to you. It will pull downwards toward the water. The harder it pulls, the more water there is. You’ve seen that before.”

“Yes, I have. How many times did you and Dad try dowsing before the stick spoke to you?”

I hold my breath, waiting for Lincoln’s answer.

“For me, it happened the first time. My father had a dizzy spell and had to sit down. He handed me his stick and asked me to help. I didn’t have time to think.”

“And Dad?” When I let the air out of my lungs, my voice comes out in a squeak.

“The first time, your father was nerved up. He started out, then changed his mind and got back in the rig.”

“And then what happened?”

“Next time was in the middle of a drought. The family had a flock of chickens just pecking around in the dust. And a new baby. Your dad cut his branch from a tree in their yard.”

Lincoln stares ahead like he’s seeing it all happen again. I wait.

“He found a vein so strong the chickens took a bath right there in the yard, and the folks cried themselves dry.”

I tried to imagine the chickens hopping around in the water gushing out of the new well, and the family so happy they cried.

“I want to try, but I don’t want Dad to know in case I can’t do it. I think he’d feel bad. I have an idea and I need your help.”

Lincoln is silent again, studying me closely.

“Let’s hear your idea,” he says.

“Okay,” I say, wondering how it would be if I was like Braggy, the son who’d been skipped over for the gift, and if it would change my nature, too. If I’d be so mad or sad I wouldn’t want Nana’s chocolate cake with vanilla frosting for my eleventh birthday.

It takes me a while to explain. Lincoln is good at listening. It might be his turned-out ears. He doesn’t interrupt to say my idea is impossible or far-fetched. He also doesn’t say it’s sure to work.

“First thing tomorrow, Henry. All you can do is try. I’ll come up and get you and let your dad know you’re working with me.”