54

I’m measuring whole wheat flour into the bread bowl, trying not to put in seven scoops of flour rather than six, when the screen door slams with a bang.

“Corney.” Bo hurries into the kitchen, her pants soaked, mud up her arms and across her cheeks. “I need another frog. The race is tomorrow.”

“Wh-wh-what happened to the other one?”

“My brother let it go. I been down the creek for an hour, but I can’t catch anything. I need you to help me get one.” She drops her canvas sack on the floor.

I look up at the clock. If I want this heavy whole wheat flour to rise, I have to knead it for a full ten minutes. I plunge my arms deep into the dough, pushing it down into a pancake, folding it back on itself, and punching it down.

“I n-n-n-never caught a fr-fr-frog before, Bo.”

“But with two of us, maybe we could trap one. You promised you’d go to the race with me.”

I put the dough into a bowl, spread a towel across the top, and set it on the counter in the sun.

“I know,” I say, wiping my hands on a towel.“But I didn’t promise I’d c-c-c-catch a frog.”