Twice a year Walter's mother dropped him off at the Sieferts before sunrise on her way to see her South Carolina sisters. Miss Esther was the only one up. She poured Walter coffee from a half-full coffeepot and added a scoop of cream skimmed off the top of the milk bucket. She removed a corn muffin from the oven and split it with butter and molasses.

On mornings when the kitchen was cool, Walter sat at the end of the table nearest the woodstove. When it was cold, Miss Esther draped him with a flannel jacket from the row of hooks beside the porch door. The jackets smelled of smoke and perspiration.

"May I go down to the river?" Walter asked, handing over his dishes.

"Walk slow. Let the sun beat you there."

On the way, Walter could hear Miss Esther shout — "Rob-IN! Time to get up. Walter is here." Within "Walter is here," he heard — Walter Nichols is important to us. We love him with heart and soul. He makes us happy. He's here! He's here!

Walter had the valley to himself. He searched the water's edge to find the line of rocks, one stone short of an easy path to Big Boulder. Walter rocked back and forth and coiled. He leaped and clawed his way to the top but not before dragging a foot in the chilled water. Walter looked downriver toward the Atlantic Ocean and upriver toward the Appalachians.

As the sun rose, two brown dots appeared at eye level. They grew larger but were still blurred by distance and speed, sometimes side-by-side, sometimes single file.

Walter hoped the mist and dim light disguised him. He made himself small. The closer and faster they came, the more they looked like feathered rockets. One flew by Walter's ear, and the second barely missed his shoulder. Walter felt as if they'd flown through him.

From the field connecting farmhouse and river, Robin ran toward him. When she reached the river's bank, Robin obscured the rocks springing up and onto the large rock as if she too could fly.

Walter whispered — "Ducks."

"I missed them."

"There will be more."



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