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and forth hopefully. If another boat landed at the dock or if someone stepped off the porch, she scurried back under the shelter of the skiff.
    Morning and evening Fate or Loyce brought a pan of food—leftover bread, gravy, deer ribs, or fish picked clean of bones. Most of the time it was still there at the next meal, minus what the ants toted off. Days passed, and her profile grew sharper as she sat watching the water. Fate described the outline of her ribs to Loyce whenever he saw the lonesome figure sitting on top the skiff.
    At night Loyce’s sensitive ears picked up soft whining. Barely audible so as not to draw attention to her grief, sadness seeped out of the starving dog. Loyce listened and remembered her first nights at the school for the blind when she was separated from every smell or sound that was familiar—from everyone she loved.
    One night the whimpering was so pitiful, Loyce couldn’t sleep. Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she felt for her cloth slippers with her feet. It was a warm night, so she didn’t even cover the cotton gown but padded downstairs and across the porch to the steps. Touching the banister lightly for orientation, she reached down with one slippered foot until it was safely on a step, then set the other foot beside it. She descended in this halting manner until she reached the plank walk, one of three that Adam had built for her years ago. Most often she used only the planks that went out back to the privy and the rainwater cistern. She rarely took this front one toward the dock. There was no call for her to use it unless someone was taking her somewhere in a boat. That didn’t happen often because everyone in the community came through the store and post office on a regular basis. Most days her world was no bigger than the porch.
    Her feet shuffled eleven steps before she put a cautious foot out to the right, off of the raised wooden path. She had counted the distance the first time Fate had led her out to bring a pan of food. As usual, scuttling sounds told her the dog was backing under the skiff.
    â€œHey, you oughta know by now I’m not going to grab you. I can’t see, remember?” she said more gently than usual. “I’ll just sit here and keep you company for a while.”
    She brushed the ground in front of the skiff with her foot to make sure it was clear before settling down with her back against the side of the boat. Drifter stopped whining but other than that didn’t seem to notice she had company.
    Loyce took a deep breath. It was a good night to sit out; the breeze was cool and smelled like young leaves. An owl hooted. A fish rippled the water. Fate’s little houseboat knocked against the dock; most likely, he had turned over in bed.
    â€œYou know, Drifter, there’s a lot to listen to on a quiet night if you just pay attention,” Loyce said, by way of conversation. “I used to be so lonesome missing home that I couldn’t sleep. Then I found that I could busy my mind and figure out what was going on around me just by paying attention to the sounds. A boat’s whistle on the river always meant something, and it wasn’t long before I could tell whether they were coming in to the dock or leaving or passing another boat. I could tell from the milkman’s step on the walk whether his feet were hurting that morning. The clang of the pans told me what we were having for breakfast just as if I’d asked the cook! I think that’s when I noticed music—just lying there, listening, in the dark.”
    Not a sound came from beneath the skiff, but Loyce thought she could feel the dog listening. It was a start, and it gave her an idea. She began humming “In the Good Old Summertime.” The bouncy little tune was the most recent one Val had brought back to her from upriver. The second time through the song, she added the words to see how they would go over with Drifter. She thought she