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depths; he also made a mental note that the natural cooler needed restocking again .
    All of the riverbank amenities were already in place when Linden moved in: a fire pit with a small stack of seasoned wood, two weathered Adirondack chairs, a rusty bottle opener hanging from a nail under the arm of one of the chairs, and a welcoming six-pack chilling in the river. Linden had replenished the supply of beer more times than he could count.
    He opened the bottle, took a long drink, and studied the large pile of stones in the middle of the river. He stepped back into the water and walked out to it. He set his bottle on a nearby rock and, with the clear, cold water swirling around his calves, began gathering large, smooth stones from the river bottom and placing them one on top of one another on the pile. As the afternoon slipped by, a massive stone cairn rose from the river, and the laughing, carefree current swirled and rippled around the man-made obstacle, searching for a new course to follow. The lyrics of an old hymn ran through Linden’s mind as he worked. “Here I raise mine Ebenezer; hither by thy help I’m come; and I hope, by thy good pleasure, safely to arrive at home.”

9
    “ H enry!” Callie called frantically as she ran through the woods. Her shirt was torn and spattered with mud, and her arms and legs were covered with scratches from the unforgiving briars that ripped at her skin. “Oh, Henry, where are you?” she shouted as she retraced her steps toward the road. She knew she needed help; she should go back to the house and call for help, but then she remembered the phone was still out of order. She hurried on until she finally reached the dirt road again and looked toward the house. Maybe he went back . Then she looked up the hill. Maybe he’s just over the hill. If I go a little farther, maybe he’s there . She pushed herself to climb to the top of the grade, and then, she stared in disbelief. A small figure was running down the old woods road.
    “Henry!” Callie cried. The figure stopped, looked up, and then continued to run. Callie raced down the hill, almost tripping several times before finally scooping him into her arms. She collapsed in an exhausted heap in the middle of the dirt road with thankful tears spilling down her cheeks. She buried her face in his sun-swept hair and breathed in his musky little boy scent mixed with the sweet scent of Johnson’s baby shampoo. Innocently unaware, Henry just sat on her lap and lightly traced his finger over the dried blood and scratches that crisscrossed her arms and legs.
    When they got back to the house, Callie set him on the counter in the bathroom, washed his face and arms with a cool washcloth, gave him another long hug, and finally let him go. She watched him wander into the living room, completely unaware of the trauma he’d caused. She latched the door again. In the morning, the first thing they’d be doing would be going to Belletetes for eyehooks. It was obvious that telling Henry not to leave the house was not enough. In fact, if the hardware store weren’t closed for the holiday, they’d already be on their way.
     
    That night, Callie made scrambled eggs and toast for supper again. She was thankful Henry wasn’t a fussy eater. By the time she’d cleaned up the kitchen, given him a quick bath, and helped him into his pajamas, the sun was slipping from the summer sky. She had wanted to visit her dad that day, but they’d never gotten the chance. It was still light enough, though, to nestle together on the back porch and read one of Henry’s favorite books. She’d found Goodnight Moon in a moving box full of towels but still had no idea how it had gotten there. They had read the little book so many times in the last two years that she didn’t even need to look at the words anymore; she knew them all by heart. And Henry, for his part, never tired of hearing the story; he just waited for the pages to be turned so he could point