Water that runs through stone keeps what happened above it. A few people are born able to hear. Your grandmother was one. Your mother refused to be. You left Kentucky for a Texas river town to be neither — and on day three, ankle-deep, the water speaks in a voice that's been dead since February, out of an aquifer that's never been within nine hundred miles of anything you love. The spring is down eleven inches. It's surfacing older water every month. And something four hundred feet down has started asking for names.