I twist it with both hands, muscles trembling.
Nothing.
Then suddenly, a violent cough of brown water bursts out, sputtering like it’s been asleep for years.
I laugh—loud, wild, relieved.
I run inside and gently shake Lily awake.
“Lils,” I whisper. “Come see.”
She stumbles outside, hair tangled, eyes barely open. When the pipe spits water again, she gasps and claps.
“You made a river!” she shouts.
“Our kingdom has water,” I tell her, forcing brightness into my voice.
I boil it in a dented pot until the metallic smell fades. I make oatmeal so thin it’s nearly broth and pretend it’s a feast. Lily eats slowly, watching me the way kids do when they’re afraid someone might disappear.
I swallow my portion and stand.
Step two: clear the land.
I choose a small patch by the creek. I’m twelve, not invincible. The land is bigger than my body, so I break it into pieces—like math problems.
Ten square meters.
Cut weeds. Pull roots. Stack dead plants into piles that look like grief dragged into corners. By noon, the Florida sun turns the air heavy and wet. My shirt sticks to my back. Blisters bloom across my palms.
Lily waddles over with a plastic cup of water, both hands shaking.
“I’m helping,” she insists.