“THIRTEEN YEARS OLD AND RUNNING A MUSEUM! LOOK AT THIS RUSTY JUNK!”
The county infrastructure supervisor laughed so loudly that the other two men standing beside his truck started laughing with him.
I stood across from them in ankle-deep Appalachian mud, holding a dented galvanized bucket in one hand and trying desperately not to let them see how frightened I was.
My name is Owen Hale. I was thirteen years old, and the rusty iron pipe they were laughing at was the only thing keeping my grandfather's trout farm alive.
Water poured from its enormous mouth into the holding pond, splashing against the dark surface and sending silver ripples toward hundreds of rainbow trout swimming beneath it. The pipe was almost a century old, with thick flanges, enormous bolts, and patches of reddish rust that made it look older than the wooden barn behind us.
To a stranger, it probably did look like something that belonged in a museum.
But I knew every valve, every bend, and every place where the water changed direction. My grandfather had spent years teaching me why the system worked, and I knew that the clear mountain spring flowing through that pipe did far more than keep our fish alive.
The man pointing at me was Harold Danner, fifty-five years old, heavyset, with a thick gray beard, powerful shoulders, and an expensive wristwatch that looked ridiculous above his muddy work gloves.
He wore a faded denim jacket over a plaid shirt, dark work trousers, and boots covered in red-brown clay. His face was flushed with amusement as he leaned against the tailgate of the county maintenance truck.
Beside him stood Brent Sloane, a broad-shouldered blond man in his early forties who was holding up his smartphone and recording me.
The third official, Russell Gentry, wore a camouflage cap and kept laughing whenever Danner did.
Behind them, an old black pickup was parked beside a gray wooden barn. Beyond the pasture fence, the Appalachian mountains rose beneath a cold, overcast sky.
Danner pointed toward the water pipe again.
“Look at that thing! Your grandpa probably installed it before electricity was invented.”
Brent laughed.
“He probably thinks trout still pay taxes in gold coins.”
Russell shook his head.
“County should charge admission. Five dollars to see the last working antique in West Virginia.”
All three men burst into laughter.
I tightened my grip on the bucket.
“It still works.”
Danner looked at me.
For a moment, he seemed surprised that I'd answered.
Then his smile broadened.
“What's that, kid?”