“The bank?”
Everett nodded.
“Roots stop washout.”
Harold looked around theatrically.
“You hear that?”
The men smiled.
“Professor Cole is saving my creek with sticks.”
Everett’s fingers tightened around the next cutting.
“Not your creek.”
Harold stopped laughing.
The farmhands stopped too.
The sound of rushing water suddenly seemed louder.
Harold stepped closer.
“What did you say?”
Everett looked at his grandfather’s notebook.
Then up.
“I said this side isn’t yours.”
Harold’s expression changed.
Not surprise exactly.
Recognition.
Small.
Fast.
Gone almost immediately.
But Everett saw it.
Harold planted his hands on his hips.
“Boy, my cattle have watered from this creek since before your mother was born.”
“That doesn’t mean you own this bank.”
“You think thirteen years old makes you a surveyor?”
“No.”
“Then pull those sticks.”
Everett stayed where he was.
Harold pointed toward them.
“Now.”
“No.”
One of the farmhands looked away.
Harold came another step closer.
“Your granddad let you get away with talking like that?”
Everett’s jaw tightened.
His grandfather had been dead five months.
Harold knew.
Everybody in Harmon Valley knew.
The funeral had filled half the church.
Harold had attended.
He had even stood beside Everett afterward and said, “Your granddad was a stubborn old mule, but he knew land.”
Now Everett heard the sentence differently.
He looked Harold directly in the eyes.
“My granddad told me never to move a marker just because somebody bigger told me to.”
Harold’s face hardened.
“These are not markers.”
“They are where his measurements say.”
Harold’s gaze flicked toward the notebook.
Everett saw it.
Again.
Recognition.
This time stronger.
Harold pointed at the book.
“What is that?”
“Nothing.”
“Let me see.”
Everett stood.
He was thirteen and thin, but farming had put wiry strength into his shoulders and hands. Standing still, he came only to Harold’s chest.
He placed one muddy boot in front of the bucket.
“No.”
Harold laughed.
But no one else did.
“You're trespassing.”
Everett looked down.
“My boots haven't crossed the old stone line.”
“There is no old stone line.”
“Then why do you know what I mean?”
The question landed.
Harold’s face flushed.
He took one sharp step forward.
Everett did not move.
Harold jabbed a finger toward the willows.
“You’ve got until this afternoon to pull every one of those worthless sticks out.”
Everett said nothing.
Harold continued.
“If they're still here, I’ll pull them myself.”
Everett’s voice stayed low.
“Don’t.”
Harold stared.
The boy added:
“And don't move the stones underneath them.”