“Should it look like that?” Mark shook as he pointed to the bank exposed by the melting snow.
I couldn’t see a problem, and told him so.
Not knowing what the word meant, I nodded sagely, but the tremor in his voice worried me.
“Dirt should be crumbly,” he said. “Nor an array of parallelograms. That’s not natural. Someone, or something, wove it.”
Holding my hand up to placate him, a glance at my tessellated palm stalled me. Somewhere on the floodplains, marked out by those lifelines, tiny steamers plied the rivers. I plummeted into the weave.