“I found something.”
“I can see that.”
Walter came down slowly.
When he reached the rope, his expression changed.
Not recognition.
Concern.
“You pull this?”
“A little.”
“How much?”
“Maybe three feet.”
Walter looked at the mud.
Then at Toby.
“Don’t touch it again.”
“What is it?”
“If I knew, I’d tell you.”
He crouched without touching the rope.
“Old ponds collect things.”
“Machinery.”
“Pipe.”
“Collapsed wells.”
“Structures.”
“Things people buried because burying was cheaper than hauling.”
Toby stared at the spot.
“There was metal underneath.”
“That is exactly why you leave it alone.”
“What if it’s something important?”
Walter stood.
“It has been under there longer than you’ve been alive.”
“It can remain important until we know what it is.”
Toby wanted to argue.
He did not.
Walter’s voice had changed.
It was the voice he used around electricity and angry cattle.
The voice that meant curiosity had reached the boundary where adults became serious.
Toby followed him toward the bank.
Before leaving, however, he picked up a narrow wooden stake.
He pushed it into the wet mud at the current waterline.
Then scratched a mark into the wood with his pocketknife.
Walter noticed.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“That is obviously something.”
“I want to know if the pond moves.”
Walter gave him a look.
“The pond has been moving all summer.”
“Down.”
Toby pointed to the mark.
“I want to see if it keeps going.”
Walter shrugged.
“Fine.”
The next morning, Toby returned before breakfast.
The bottom of the mark was underwater.
He stared.
Then crouched.
Measured.
Nearly three inches.
He checked the bank.
Maybe the stake had shifted.
It had not.
He pushed a second stake nearby.
Marked the new level.
Then walked to the house.
Helen was frying eggs.
Walter sat at the table drinking coffee.
“The pond came up.”
Walter did not look up.
“Wind.”
“There wasn’t much wind.”
“Cattle.”
“They haven’t been down yet.”
Helen glanced over.
“How much?”
“Almost three inches.”
That got Walter’s attention.
“You measure it?”
“Twice.”
Walter looked toward the window.
“Could be groundwater.”
Helen said.
“The basin’s low enough now that seepage might show differently.”
Walter nodded.
“Ground changes during drought.”
“Clay dries.”
“Pressure changes.”
Toby accepted both explanations.
They were reasonable.
He also returned to the pond after supper.
The water was still near the new mark.
Next morning it had risen again.
Not three inches.
Closer to two.
Third morning.
Another inch and a half.
Toby found his school notebook.
Blue cover.
Half-filled with seventh-grade arithmetic.
He turned to a clean page.
August 31.
No rain.
Hot.
Pond + approximately 3 inches from first mark.
September 1.
Clear.
+2 inches.
September 2.
Windy afternoon.
+1 1/2.
Walter saw the notebook.
“You doing homework early?”
“No.”
“Miracle.”