Two and seven-eighths inches.
He measured again.
Nearly three inches.
Toby looked toward the sky.
Clear.
No rain overnight.
Not even dew heavy enough to explain anything.
He walked around the shoreline.
Perhaps wind had pushed water toward the stake.
But the pond surface was flat.
He found another piece of wood.
Pushed it into the opposite side.
Marked that level too.
At breakfast, Helen noticed mud on his knees.
"You've been at the pond?"
"Yes."
"Before chores?"
"It is a chore."
Walter looked over his coffee.
Toby said, "Water came up."
Helen paused.
"What?"
"Three inches."
Walter frowned.
"Where?"
"At the stake."
Helen looked toward Walter.
"Did we get rain north of here?"
"No."
"Could runoff be coming from somewhere?"
Walter shook his head.
"Ground's dry."
Toby said, "It's where the rope is."
Walter gave him a warning look.
Helen noticed.
"What rope?"
Toby told her.
Walter added quickly, "He's not touching it again."
Helen set down the skillet.
"Something buried?"
"Probably."
Toby said, "The mud around it was wet."
Walter looked at him.
"It was a pond bottom."
"Not like the other mud."
Helen asked, "What does that mean?"
Toby shrugged.
"I don't know."
Walter said, "It means he's thirteen."
Toby frowned.
Helen smiled faintly.
"Mark it again."
Walter looked at her.
"Helen."
"What?"
"If he's wrong, we lose nothing."
"If he's right?"
She looked toward the north pasture through the window.
"Then maybe we learn something useful."
That evening, Toby returned with his school notebook.
The cover had MATH written across it in pencil.
He turned to the first blank page.
August 29, 1977.
Morning level: +2 7/8 inches.
Weather: clear, no rain.
He marked the new level.
The following morning:
+1 1/4 inches.
September 1:
+1 3/8.
September 2:
+3/4.
The pond did not fill rapidly.
But it kept gaining.
That alone was strange.
Everything else was losing water.
Toby began writing more.
Wind.
Clouds.
Temperature from the thermometer outside the kitchen.
Cattle count.
How muddy the shoreline looked.
Walter teased him.
"Planning on publishing a weather report?"
Toby said, "Maybe."
But Walter started paying attention too.
On September 3, Toby noticed the second strange thing.
The pond bottom had dried almost completely except around the rope.
There, the clay remained dark.
He pushed his boot beside it.
Water slowly appeared.
Not from the pond.
From below.
A cold film gathered around the leather.
Toby lifted his foot.
The water seeped away.
He did it again.
More water emerged.
"Grandpa!"
Walter walked down.
Toby showed him.
Walter crouched.
He pressed two fingers into the clay.
Cold.
Far colder than surface mud should have been after days of sun.
Walter sat back on his heels.
"Well."
Toby waited.
"Well what?"
Walter rubbed mud between his fingers.
"I've seen ground do that around springs."
Toby stared.
"A spring?"
"Maybe."
"Under the pond?"
Walter looked toward the hollow.
Something distant entered his expression.
Not recognition exactly.