Birdie’s plate has a slice of Fiona’s pumpkin pie and a slice of blueberry pie.

There’s new glass where the window broke, and I hear the call of a barred owl far off in the woods. I decide Nana’s house is like the food we got. It’s different than the house we lost, but also the same. My view out the window in the upstairs room is in the same direction as my old bedroom. I can still see the sun rise in the morning. Only now, instead of a view of the field, I see a stream shimmering with reflected light. It’s not the same, but it’s good.

Chapter 23

American Indians…have treated rivers with the greatest awe. Some tribes believed that fast-flowing springs were sacred and that the bubbles that issued from them were caused by the breathing of spirits.

—Fred Powledge, Water

THE NEXT DAY I wait. I wait to hear what Charlotte Rose finds out about Mr. Ronnie. I wait to hear how James is doing. Every minute feels like an hour. Every hour feels like a month. Especially since I don’t know if what I’m waiting for will be good news or bad.

While I’m waiting, the doorbell rings. It’s Mr. Ward from the Lowington Fire Department with a bag of mittens, hats, gloves, and scarves. There are small ones for Birdie, ones that fit me, and bigger sizes for Mom and Dad.

The phone rings, too. News has spread about the gusher, and there are calls from people who want me to dowse a well for them. I write down their names and numbers.

“Come for a walk with me, Henry,” Nana says after one of the phone calls. “Take your mind off things for a bit.”

We go over the hill past the gravel pit, and Nana stops to look at the quarry. It’s a deep hole cut in the side of the hill, with huge slabs of speckled granite sticking out from the dirt.

“Your grandfather quarried the granite foundation for our house from here. And most of the granite for the county courthouse and the town library came out of this quarry.”

Nana always stops here and tells me this same story. I listen to be polite, but today I look at the hole and try to imagine what it was like when my grandfather worked the stone.

“Really? How much granite is in there?” I ask her.

“More granite than you could cut in your lifetime. The boys got busy with drilling and selling gravel from the pit and let the quarry go. Why, do you think you might want to get it going again someday?” Nana’s winter coat is buttoned up to her neck, and her hat is pulled down over her ears. Only a little bit of white hair sticks out in the back.

“I don’t know. I like rocks.”