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cluster of
perfectly ripe bananas, and after extracting my mail, I discovered a
bumpy envelope with my name on it (but no stamp or address) slipped
between Mom's package and the junk mail.
     
    The maternal note could wait.  I immediately
unfolded the flap on the strange letter, and out spilled a pen, a blank sheet
of paper, and another page with careful hand-lettering that read:
     
     
    Forsythia,

I hope you don't mind me writing you a note.  (This is Jacob from
the airport, in case you've met so many other people here that you've
forgotten my name.)

When I got home, Mamaw was mad as a hatter that I'd left you there
alone.  She says there's no phone down in Hippie Holler, and what
will you do if you need help?

I was going to walk down and check on you, but didn't want to intrude.  So I decided to write a letter instead.

I pass by your mailbox just about every day, so feel free to write me a
note, even if you don't need help.  Don't put up the flag, though, or the
mailman will take your letter by mistake.

    —Jacob

    P.S.  I hope you like bananas.
     
    Suddenly, the smile on my face was just as big as
Kat's.  I took off my backpack and sat down in the shade of a pear
tree to enjoy a snack and to write a reply on the spot.  One banana
later, I'd let Jacob know that I appreciated his thought, that he was
welcome to come down and check on me anytime, and that I did like
bananas very much.  I also wrote Mom a quick note on the back of
one of the fliers and added it to my outgoing mail, scrawling "PLEASE
LEAVE FOR JACOB" in big letters on the relevant envelope so that I could
raise the flag after all.  Feeling a bit like Scout, who found unexpected
gifts in a tree knothole in To Kill a Mockingbird ,
I wandered the rest of the way down the hill with a grin on my
face, rereading Mom's and Jacob's letters while juggling the box and
fruit in my other hand.
     
     

     
    It was a couple of hours after I got home and
finished baking the apple-raspberry pie Kat had helped me start when the
    cramping and diarrhea started.  When researching my original
summer-traveling adventure, I'd learned that it's not always safe to
drink the water when you're on the road, but I'd assumed the admonition
only applied to places like Mexico and Africa.  So I'd seen no
reason not to fill my water bottle from the jugs hand-labeled "Spring Water" at the
Viking Festival—big mistake!  Apparently, spring water is full
of microscopic this-and-thats, which you get used to if you grow up in a
place like Appalachia, but which can tie the intestines of city
slickers into knots.  Like most parts of
    living in the countryside, you'll grow accustomed to untreated water
    in time, but you'll likely get heartily sick first.
     
    Which is why I spent my second afternoon at
    Greensun—and half the night—running back and forth to the
composting toilet.  At first, I'd thought this structure was
inspired—doing your business with a view of the creek and hillside seemed
    like bliss.  It was much less paradisiacal at midnight during
    the pounding rain when I arrived in the outhouse soaked, turned off
    my flashlight because I knew I'd be making a dozen more trips and
    didn't want to run down the batteries, and then repeated the endeavor
    five minutes later.  I do have to admit that the sound of water
    pounding on the tin roof was comforting, but only a little bit.
     
    So when I woke up the next morning, I was all set
    to laze in bed reading for hours.  My stomach felt much better,
    but I wasn't quite ready to put anything into my mouth.  So I just
lay there, enjoying how good the sun
    shining in the window felt on my skin.  The creek, which
    had been a gentle gurgle the previous morning, was now a solid roar,
and the noise had almost lulled me back to sleep when I heard a male
voice hollering above the water. 
    "Hello!" whoever-it-is yelled.  "Is Forsythia Green