There was a hole in Billie’s front yard.
The hole was actually the beginning of a basement that had been dug for a larger house back when Billie thought she could pay for such a thing. A few springs of rain and thaw had filled the hole with water, and by the time we arrived, it had become a regular feature of Billie’s yard. A pond, almost. The water in the hole started out clean and woody as sap, but by August, it had lowered itself, and rusted-out bike frames and old tires broke through an algae-laden surface. Kids threw things into the hole, ran around it, stood close enough to feel the tug of danger, then backed off.
Most water came from a distribution center. We went once a week in pickups and cars to collect enough water for drinking, bathing, and cooking. Drinking water was kept just off the kitchen in a metal basin, where we used a silver ladle to drop it into our mouths. We bathed in the sink, Billie’s sister using her long red nails to wash our scalps. She poured warm water over the backs of our heads, squeezed curlicues of cool shampoo onto crowns of wet hair, and scrubbed. We stood in a line and approached the sink one at a time, heads bowed.