“Nothing.”
“Everett.”
He looked down.
“Granddad wrote about the creek.”
Sarah stopped.
“What did he write?”
“Measurements.”
“For drainage?”
“I don't think so.”
She waited.
He reached under his shirt and pulled the notebook.
Sarah’s face changed immediately.
“Where did you get that?”
“Barn.”
“You took it?”
“It was Granddad’s.”
“Yes.”
Her voice sharpened more than she intended.
“And now it is part of the estate papers.”
Everett frowned.
“It’s a farm notebook.”
“You don't know that.”
“It has cows in it.”
“Lots of things have other things.”
He looked confused.
She held out hand.
“Give it.”
He did.
Sarah opened.
The first pages were ordinary.
She flipped.
Then saw blue-ink measurements.
Her expression shifted.
“Did you write any of this?”
“No.”
“Of course not.”
She sat.
Everett watched.
She turned more pages.
The same notes he had studied.
Old fence.
Iron pin.
Willow line.
North meadow.
Briggs use.
One phrase Sarah read aloud:
“Do not let new fence become old truth.”
She looked at Everett.
“What does that mean?”
“I think Harold’s fence isn't line.”
Sarah went still.
“Harold talked to you?”
“This morning.”
“What happened?”
“He told me pull willows.”
“Everett.”
“He pulled three.”
“What did he say to you?”
The boy shrugged.
“Nothing.”
His mother knew that shrug.
“Tell me.”
“He said land is his.”
“And?”
“He got mad when I said about stones.”
Sarah shut notebook.
“You are staying away from Harold Briggs.”
“What?”
“You heard.”
“But—”
“No.”
“He knows something.”
“Maybe.”
“Mom.”
“Everett.”
She leaned forward.
“Your grandfather and Harold argued over that creek for years.”
Everett stared.
“You knew?”
“I knew there was disagreement.”
“About line?”
“About everything.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because you’re thirteen.”