Mina was on her knees beside the shallow ditch, where the reeds bent and whispered in the breeze. She had one boot in the damp grass and one boot on a plank path, and she was watching a line of tiny ants hurry along the edge of the board. Pip stood nearby with his straw hat tipped over one ear, holding a small tin cup full of water he was supposed to carry to Bran.
“Look,” Mina said, pointing at the ditch. “Yesterday the plank was dry. Today it’s shiny all along the middle. Why does it keep changing?”
Pip tipped his cup a little to see his reflection wobble. “Maybe the path is trying to be a river.”
Before Mina could answer, a gust of warm wind swept through the fold. It pushed a ribbon of grass seeds into the ditch, rattled the reeds, and sent a faint wet splash across the near plank. Mina frowned. The board was damp again, but not from rain. Something small and slippery had been running over it.
At that moment, Bran’s voice called from the shed, “Mina. Pip. I need that water, and I need both of you to stay off the wet plank.”
Mina looked at the shining board, then at the ants, then at Pip’s cup, and then toward the ditch bend where the reeds hid whatever had splashed through. If she wanted to know what was making the path change, she would have to pick what to do first: follow the wet trail, bring Bran the water, or stop Pip from trying the plank on his own.
What happens next?
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