Where Sound Carries

On the morning the river went down, Nick Kierpiec missed the bus on purpose.

He told himself it was because the sky looked different after a flood, scrubbed and pale like a plate rinsed too clean. He told himself he wanted to walk the long way along Front Street and see what the water had left behind. Both of those things were true. But if he was honest, he also wanted to delay the day. He wanted to stand still for a bit before the town decided what it was going to do with him next.

The bus hissed away from the curb and took its diesel breath with it. Nick watched it go, then turned toward the river.

Front Street ran parallel to the levee, a strip of old brick buildings with narrow storefronts and faded signs. Most mornings it smelled like coffee and fried dough from the bakery. Today it smelled like wet wood and silt. The flood had crept up to the back doors, soaked the basements, and then retreated, leaving a line of brown like a watermark on everything.

Nick stepped over a clump of reeds and kept walking. He passed the hardware store, the empty florist, the bar that never opened before noon. The windows were dark, but inside he could see tables stacked like bones.

At the corner, Mrs. Rossiter was already sweeping. She was small and bent, and the broom looked bigger than she was. She paused when she saw him.

“Morning,” she said.

“Morning,” Nick said.

“River finally behaving,” she said, nodding toward the levee.

“For now,” Nick said.

She smiled, the way people did when they didn’t have anything else to say but wanted to leave on a friendly note. He kept going.

He’d grown up here. He’d left at eighteen and come back at thirty-two with a duffel bag, a box of books, and a job offer that fell through two weeks later. Now he worked part-time at the museum on Main, cataloging things no one came to see. He rented a room above the old tailor shop, with windows that rattled when trucks went by. He told himself it was temporary. Everyone did — the kind of word people used when they didn’t plan to stay long enough to be noticed.

The museum was closed for cleanup, so Nick walked past it and down to the river path. The path was usually busy, but this early it was empty. Mud sucked at his shoes. He followed it until he reached the bend where the water slowed and spread, and he sat on the low concrete wall.

The river was wide and brown, carrying branches and the occasional bottle. It made a sound like breathing, slow and even. Nick closed his eyes and let it fill his ears.

He must have sat there longer than he thought, because when he opened his eyes the light had shifted. The sun was higher, and a pair of men stood on the path a little way down, near the old boathouse. One of them was Glen Duff.

Glen had been a year ahead of Nick in school. They hadn’t been friends, exactly, but in a town this size you knew everyone. Glen had stayed. He ran his father’s plumbing business now, drove a white truck with the logo still peeling on the doors. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a face that always looked like it was bracing for bad news.

The other man was new to Nick. He wore a city jacket, dark and too clean, and held a folder under his arm.

He had spent most of his life being nearby when things happened, close enough to hear but not close enough to matter. He was sitting out in the open, staring at the river. The men stopped near the boathouse, not ten yards away. Their voices carried easily in the open air.

“I’m telling you,” Glen said, “it’s not going to be that simple.”

The other man sighed. He adjusted the folder under his arm, squared it like it might drift if he didn’t. “Nothing ever is. But we have commitments. Timelines.”

“You have timelines,” Glen said. “We have a town.”

The man smiled, quick and professional, the kind that was over before it reached his eyes. “The council is on board. They know what this could bring.”

“Jobs,” Glen said, flat. “That’s the word you keep using.”

“It’s not just a word,” the man said. He said it patiently, like he’d practiced saying it that way. “It’s a reality. This place needs it.”

Nick felt a small, unwelcome prickle of interest. He knew the council meetings by heart. He’d attended three since he’d been back. He knew what words got used.

Glen kicked at a stone. “At what cost?”

The man hesitated. “We’ve done the assessments.”

“Paper,” Glen said. “I’m talking about people.”

There was a pause. Nick watched a stick spin in the eddy by the wall.

“The old houses by the bend,” Glen went on. “You’re buying them out. You say fair price. You say voluntary. But you and I both know how that goes.”

“It’s within the law,” the man said. He glanced at the folder, then back at Glen, as if the law were written there.

“That doesn’t make it right.”

The man exhaled through his nose. “You think I like this? I grew up in a place like this.”

Glen snorted. “No, you didn’t.”

Something tightened in the man’s jaw. He looked past Glen, toward the river, as if checking the weather. “Look, the flood changed the math…”

Glen didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was lower. “Then at least we didn’t sell the river.”

Nick's stomach tightened. He knew about the proposal, of course. Everyone did. A distribution center, on the low land by the bend. Promises of work. Promises of growth. The flood had put it on hold, or so he thought.

The man glanced around, and for a moment his eyes flicked toward Nick. Nick looked down at his hands, suddenly very aware of himself. The man looked away.

“We’re not selling the river,” the man said. “We’re using it.”

Glen laughed, a short sound. “That’s what they always say.”

The man exhaled. “I need you to sign off on the access. Your company’s lines run through the site. We can’t move forward without it.”

Glen rubbed his face with both hands. “You’re asking me to be the one who does this.”

“I’m asking you to be practical.”

“Practical,” Glen repeated. He looked out at the water. “You know my mother’s house is in that zone.”

The man’s shoulders slumped. “I know.”

Another pause. Nick could feel his heart beating. He told himself it wasn’t his business. He told himself he’d leave as soon as there was an opening.

Glen spoke again. “Give me a week.”

The man straightened. “We don’t have a week.”

“Give me a week,” Glen said. “Or find another way.”

The man closed his folder. “I’ll talk to my people.”

“Do that.”

They stood there a moment longer, the river moving between them. Then the man turned and walked back up the path, past Nick. As he passed, he nodded, the way people do when they want to acknowledge you without inviting anything further. Nick nodded back, surprised.

Glen stayed where he was. He stared at the water, hands on his hips. Nick hesitated, then stood.

“Hey,” Nick said, because it felt wrong to walk past without acknowledging him.

Glen looked over, startled. Then he recognized him. “Nick. Didn’t see you there.”

“Yeah,” Nick said. “I was just… sitting.”

Glen nodded. “Good spot for it.”

“Looks like it’s finally calming down,” Nick said, gesturing at the river.

“For now,” Glen said, the way people did when they were used to letting things decide themselves.

They stood in silence. Nick felt the weight of what he’d heard settle on him, heavy and awkward. He didn’t know what to do with it.

“I should get going,” Nick said.

Glen nodded again. “Yeah.”

Nick walked past him and up the path. His mind kept circling the conversation, replaying phrases. Selling the river. The old houses. Glen's mother.

By the time he reached Main Street, the town was awake. A delivery truck idled by the diner. Someone laughed. The ordinary sounds felt fragile, like they could crack if you looked at them wrong.

He spent the rest of the day trying to focus on anything else. He went to the museum and sorted arrowheads into new trays. He ate lunch on the steps and watched a family take pictures by the statue. He told himself that what he’d heard didn’t change anything. He told himself it wasn’t his place — a sentence he’d learned early, and repeated whenever things got decided without him.

That evening, he climbed the stairs to his room and opened the window. The river was out of sight, but he could hear it if he leaned out. He lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling, where a water stain spread like a map.

He thought about his father, who had worked at the mill until it closed, and then nowhere else. He thought about his mother, who had stayed and stayed until staying became the only thing she knew how to do. He thought about Glen, standing by the river, being asked to decide something no one should have to decide alone.

The next morning, Nick went to the council meeting.

He hadn’t planned to speak. He sat in the back and listened as the agenda moved along. There were updates about cleanup, about grants, about timelines. The same words, again and again.

Nick waited for someone else to stand. He counted breaths, then stopped counting. He had the sense that if he didn’t move now, he would sit here forever, watching other people decide what his life looked like.

When the chair opened the floor, there was a pause. Nick felt his pulse in his ears. He stood before he could talk himself out of it.

“My name is Nick Kierpiec,” he said. His voice sounded strange in the room. “I grew up here.”

A few heads turned. Someone nodded.

“I just wanted to ask,” he went on, “what plans are being made for the houses by the bend.” He hadn’t meant to make a point. He just wanted to be on record somewhere, even if nothing came of it.

There was a murmur. The chair cleared his throat. “Those discussions are ongoing.”

“With who?” Nick asked.

“With stakeholders,” the chair said.

“Are the residents part of that?” Nick said.

Another pause. The chair looked down at his papers. “They will be consulted.”

Nick took a breath. He hadn’t meant to say more, but the words came anyway. “The river isn’t just a line on a map. It’s not just access. It’s part of why this place is what it is. If we don’t talk about that, we’re missing something.”

The room was quiet. Nick felt heat creep up his neck. He sat down.

After the meeting, Glen found him by the door.

“You spoke well,” Glen said.

Nick shrugged. “I don’t know if it mattered.”

“It does,” Glen said. “More than you think.”

They stepped outside. The night was cool. The river, somewhere beyond the buildings, kept breathing.

“I heard you yesterday,” Nick said, before he could stop himself.

Glen studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. Figured someone might.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Nick said. “I was just there.”

“I know,” Glen said. “It’s a small town. Sounds carry.”

They stood on the steps, side by side.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” Glen said. “We could use more voices.”

Nick looked out at Front Street, at the familiar shapes and shadows. He thought about the bus he’d missed on purpose. For once, the delay hadn’t been a way of avoiding the day. It had been how he stepped into it.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

The river went on, wide and brown and patient, carrying what it carried. For now, at least, it was still theirs.