Silence.
Bubble.
Then two in quick succession.
He leaned closer.
The sound came from somewhere near the center.
It was not the soft popping of frogs.
Not fish feeding.
Not air trapped beneath floating vegetation.
It had a wet, hollow quality, like water draining through a pipe.
He watched until darkness forced him home.
The next morning he went to Warren.
His grandfather was in the tack shed repairing a bridle strap under a hanging work light.
“Grandpa?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“How much work your question creates for me.”
Eli leaned against the door frame.
“Do you remember anything being where the back pond is before it was a pond?”
Warren stopped stitching.
He looked at Eli.
“That’s a strange question.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“I’m trying to figure something out.”
Warren set the leather down.
“What kind of something?”
“The pond is moving.”