years. Forbes’ tongue went dry with disgust for the people of the town who couldn’t mak e it
stick.
“Going to the birthday party for that little boy they pulled out of the dry well?”
“Wasn’t he lookin for water?” He lifted his glass to drink.
“Same as you.”
Nick dropped the paper in front of him. On the front page of the Lawrence Journal-
World was the story about Charles Rasmussen, a four-year-old boy who had become lodged in
a dried-up well while his cousin had tried to lower him on a rope. It had taken a team of
firefighters a whole evening to dislodge him. Now he was safe. Today the community was
going to throw a birthday party for him. It had rallied around this little hero who had risked his
life in blind faith believing in something that the community was desperately searching for.
Rain.
Forbes flinched. “He found a water that’s too deep to find the light. That’s what he
found.” His words took on an arid feel. “This whole summer is crushing me. We’re being
crushed. All hope. All dream. It’s one defeat after another.” He tried to wipe his eyes on his
shirt sleeve, consumed by the shame of his place — the fields blighted with weeds, the broken
combines, the rats in the kitchen, the withered flowers in the front yard, his wife in the
hospital — and the years long ago when everything was fresh and new: the tall, burgeoning
cornstalks from his youth, the swollen years when Ma would step off the porch and mosey to
the field to break off dinner. It had been a long time. It had been several years from then, and
the sun had been angry, and now the field and all her relic had dusted over.
“You could start over again, Forbes. You’ve got your heart.”
“No, I don’t have my heart. But you think Adam is immune to being crushed?”
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