“I might not be a dowser,” I warn him. “It could have been Dr. Morgan’s little stone that helped me find it last time.”

“That’s okay, Henry.”

I jump down from the rig. My boots make footprints in the snow as I walk across Velma’s front lawn.

“Didn’t the boy bring a hat?” I hear Velma say.

“He dowsed bareheaded last time, too,” Lincoln tells her. He and Dad follow me. Lincoln carries the steel rod and a hammer.

The dowsing stick feels familiar in my hands. The forks of the V rest in my upturned palms, and the long end points ahead. I grip the forks enough to feel the wood, but I don’t clench my fingers around them like last time. It will happen or it won’t.

Think of the water, Lincoln said.

I don’t know if the stick is leading me or I’m guiding the stick, but I find myself walking across the snow to the back of Velma’s house like I’m being pulled by an invisible magnet.

There’s a row of sunflower stalks, corn stubble, and wooden stakes sticking out from a square that must be Velma’s kitchen garden. Next to it stands a trellis of grapevines.

Suddenly, like the last time I dowsed, there’s a vibration and a warmth in my hands.

I slow my steps, and the stick bends down just past the trellis.

I look up. Dad and Lincoln are both smiling. With three big whacks of his hammer, Lincoln pounds the rod into the ground in the place where the stick pointed.

“Time to go to work,” Dad says, “and see if we can get that pony some water.”

Chapter 26

It is known to often pass from grandfather to grandson, from mother to son, from father to daughter. As many women can dowse as men.

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

BIRDIE AND BRAGGY and Velma are in the pasture. Dreamer has her head bent down and Birdie is petting her nose. The puppy is lying next to Birdie’s feet.

“Braggy,” Velma says, “I’ve seen some of your paintings. When I get my new barn built, will you paint a picture of Dreamer on her stall door? I’m not sure what you charge, but maybe I could pay you off over time.”

“Sure. I’m not worried about getting paid,” Braggy answers. “I know you have HORSE SENSE. C-E-N-T-S.”

“Pet the pony, Henry,” Birdie says.

“Yes, I see you’re petting her.”

“YOU pet her, Henry.”

I stroke Dreamer’s mane. It’s rougher than I expect, like the unraveled ends of a rope.

Dad and Lincoln start up the rig and the tanker truck and drive behind the house.

Birdie reaches for my dowsing stick.

“I do it, too. Like you.”