Warren rested both hands on the top of his cane.
“A farm is full of old decisions.”
“What does that mean?”
“Fence goes somewhere because somebody put it there. Barn faces a direction because somebody chose it. Pond exists because water found weakness. Then fifty years later everybody assumes those things are natural.”
He nodded toward the water.
“But usually there’s a reason underneath.”
Eli looked across the pond.
The surface reflected the evening sky.
Calm.
Ordinary.
“You think there’s anything else buried out here?”
Warren smiled.
“Almost certainly.”
“What?”
“If I knew, it wouldn’t be buried history.”
Eli laughed.
The following spring, Corrine invited him to speak for ten minutes during a local-history program at the library.
Eli said no.
Then Marcus said he should.
Then Warren said he definitely should.
Eli accused them of conspiracy.
Still, he went.
About thirty people attended.
Most were older than his parents.
Corrine displayed the 1960s soil survey, Eli’s modern aerial overlay, photographs of the pump housing, and images taken during the repair.
When she introduced him, Eli stood beside the map feeling ridiculous.