Their voices, which Rémi had found soothing at first, now buzzed sideways in his head. He backed away from them, putting his hands to his ears, feeling a sudden need to get away. He turned from the cottages and made for the brush, and the voices weaved and entangled with the dissonance of night creatures. Daylight was fading, the chatter from the bayou reaching crescendo. All about were sounds to bewilder and frustrate him. He came upon the eastern well and sat down on packed dirt, leaning against the hard, cool stones. In a clump of grass by the base of the well lay an assemblage of pebbles. He recognized them as a slingshot collection. A burning in his throat. It occurred to him that he was thirsty and he thought about what Tatie Bernadette had said, that Laramie might have drunk water from this well. He looked, and saw the drawing pail hanging from a nail in the railroad tie beam, and wondered if the water was indeed tainted. He pulled back the wooden lid and peered into it. The well reflected his silhouette, framed on the glassy surface by pastels of late sunset.
