“So I sat in the river,” he continued, “facing the current, and it was the best of all worlds. The water kept me cool, and I had a comfortable place to sit, and all the while there was the excitement of the river coming at me, over me and through me.”

Oisín thought he had painted the picture effectively, and stood with the children in the silence.

“Sounds like you’re just sitting in a river.”

Oisín looked around for the source of this wisdom. It was the mushroom boy.

“I am sitting in a river. That’s why I call it riversitting. I invented that word.”

“You didn’t invent that word,” the boy said.

“I did indeed.”

“It’s not even a word.”

“It is. You can look it up.”

“Where?”

“Any book. Every book. Every book has some mention of riversitting, and how I made up the word.”

Oisín found Rebecca’s eyes. She was smiling at him. Nothing better than a child who gets your jokes. He loved her so much it hurt.

They resumed their walk. Rebecca dashed into the thicket and returned with a fuzzy green plant.

“Eat this,” she said.

“Fennel?” he asked.

She nodded eagerly and took a bite of hers.

“I haven’t had this in so long,” he said. The taste was first a delicate mint with a strong licorice chaser.

“Time to eat fennel!” Oisín announced, and he and Rebecca distributed stalks to all the kids. Half of them tried it; the others stood with arms crossed, repulsed.

“You can’t just eat random plants!” one of the miserable two said.

“Agreed,” Oisín said. “That one, for example, you can’t eat.” He pointed to a plant he’d just spotted—a spiky fruit called a paddy melon. “But you can eat fennel. And sourgrass. Rebecca?”

Rebecca plucked a handful of sourgrass and distributed it. The local kids knew to suck on the stalk, where the takings were sour, yes, but provided a sugary jolt, too.

“Where are we going?” Caitlin asked.

“The Museum of Rain,” Rebecca said.

“It’s not a real museum,” Caitlin said.

“Yes it is,” Rebecca said. “You’ll see.”

“Is it true you were in a war and got shot?” Caitlin asked.

“More or less, yes,” Oisín said.

“But you didn’t die?” Caitlin asked.

Oisín laughed. “No, I didn’t die.”

“So is the museum about the war?” she asked.

“No,” he said, “it’s not about the war.”

Satisfied that there was nothing interesting about Oisín or where they were going, Caitlin skipped ahead to catch up with the larger group.

Oisín slowed down until he and Rebecca were at the rear of the group. The path was dusty, striped by violet treeshadows.

“Sorry about her,” Rebecca said.

“So you’ve been to the Museum?” he asked. She seemed to know more about it than any of the other children.