You must face up to the fact that dowsing will put a strain on your ability to admit and accept what you can do and will soon be doing. At the same time you must be prepared to treat this faculty of dowsing with respect and always make use of it in a responsible manner.

—Raymond C. Willey, Modern Dowsing: The Dowser’s Handbook

“VELMA CALLED. She wants a new well drilled. Lincoln and I are headed there this morning,” Dad says at breakfast.

He’s making ployes on Nana’s cookstove. The wind must have blown the ploye smell down the hill, because Braggy shows up just in time to try the first ones out of the cast-iron skillet. Lincoln is down by the water, filling up the tanker truck.

Nana opens the jar of maple syrup James rescued from the house before it flooded and dribbles it over Birdie’s ployes. Since her high chair got washed away, Birdie sits in a regular chair. She’s propped up on the X and Z encyclopedias from the box Mrs. Kay gave me.

James would have come for breakfast, too, but he has to see the doctor today and get his stitches out.

When Dad says that about drilling a well for Velma, I know what I need to do.

Ever since I dowsed the town’s water and lost the little stone from Miles Morgan, I keep thinking,

I’m a dowser.

No, I’m not, not really.

I gave the water back.

No, it was the stone that did it, not me.

“Can I do the dowsing for Velma’s well?” I ask Dad.

Braggy looks up from his ployes when I say that.

“If you want to. I don’t see why not.” Dad nods.

“Great! She’s the lady with the pony named Dreamer, right?” I remember the day we unloaded the barrels of water and saw the black pony and the tilted barn.

“I go see the pony, too.” Birdie bounces on the encyclopedias.

“Birdie, sweetie.” Mom smooths Birdie’s hair. “Dad and Lincoln can’t watch you when they’re drilling.”

“I pet the pony.” Birdie lifts her hand and shows us how she’d do it.

“I’ll take you, Birdie,” Braggy says. “You and I can pet the pony while these guys do all the work.”

“You can pet, too,” Birdie agrees.

“Was it the big rock that made Velma’s well go dry?” I ask.

“No, she’s had trouble with water for a long time,” Dad says. “She used to haul it from the town well. Her land sits on ledge and all she has is a dug well.”