It's late October, just past three in the morning, at a diner on Poison Creek Road in a town called Stillwater that doesn't appear on any map I've ever seen. A woman walks in wearing a raincoat that's dry as dust, orders black coffee, and starts talking about the creek that runs behind the diner — how it used to be clear, how it turned dark after the flood of '89, how she's the one who made it that way. She tells me about the house upstream, the family she worked for, and the night she finally understood what the water was carrying. By the time she leaves, I can still see her reflection in the window — but she's already gone. This is a story about what gets into the water, what gets into a person, and what happens when the two can't be told apart.

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