You pull the drain. Forty gallons start to swirl away. Outside, someone screams.
The flashlights rush the porch. Fists on the door. Dale shouting: stop, stop, you don't understand.
The phone rings. The county woman. Is the tub empty?
You say yes. And she says: good. Now open the door.
Wait. She told you to keep them out. And now she wants them in.
You have one gallon left. A person needs one gallon a day. Twice that in heat like this.
Through the door, Dale is crying now. He says: that wasn't the county. The county lines have been dead for three days.
So who has been calling your kitchen phone?
You check the old phone's call log. The first call came in at 6:02 this morning. Two minutes after your tap went dry. Before anyone on Alder Street knew.
Whoever was calling you knew the water would stop. Because they stopped it.
The phone rings again. And again. And again. You don't answer it.
Then the knocking moves. Not the front door. The closet. The one with the water heater.