Fog pressed softly against the bamboo window, slipping through the thin crosshatch of the strips. Wiles lay perfectly straight under his blanket, the edges tucked under his arms, legs, even under the back of his head. He liked the feeling of being sealed in, warm and protected from the cold and mosquitoes. Only his breathing moved.

  When the roosters crowed, Wiles sprang upright as if pulled by a string. His stomach tensed from the curl-ups he had done before sleep, his arms a little stiff from hauling water yesterday. The ache was familiar, even comforting. He stretched lightly, splashed water from a clay jug onto his face and throat, and felt fully awake.

  Another day. Another routine he quietly enjoyed.

  He arranged the firewood carefully on the three old stones, distributing fuel so the flame would catch quickly. The pot of rice went over the fire, a thin wisp of smoke rising. Then he grabbed the two buckets and his bathing tray. Time for the well.

  The path to the well ran along the edge of the rice fields, narrow strips of hardened earth and muddy patches with grass brushing against his ankles. Only a few families used this well regularly. Most neighbors simply bathed or washed clothes at home. During the dry season, water could disappear quickly, and some mornings a neighbor with a siphon machine would arrive early, pulling water straight from the well into their house. Wiles hated those days. They made him feel like every trip to the well was a race he could lose. He always tried to arrive first and fill enough buckets for his family, sometimes even going back after school to make sure.

  Today was quiet. No siphon machine.

  He bathed quickly. The water was lukewarm, just as the elders had said. He lowered the frayed rope and container into the well, pulling it up carefully so it filled without spilling. His fingers burned slightly from gripping the metal handles, but he liked it. The pain reminded him he was strong. He filled both buckets, balanced the tray on one of them, and stepped carefully along the grassy path back home, gripping the straps tightly to avoid slipping.

  Back inside, the buckets went to their places. One cleaned the bathroom floor; the other refilled the family drum. He checked the rice, lowered the fire, then headed out for another trip. Each round left his fingers red, his biceps shaking, his stomach straining, but he pressed on. Every drop mattered in the dry season.

  Finally, the drum was full. He washed his muddy feet and dressed. Breakfast was simple: leftover rice and a single egg cooked over the remaining warmth of the fire. He boiled water in the kettle so nothing went to waste. His mother was still asleep. He woke her gently. She stretched and rose slowly, her eyes still heavy with sleep.

  His brothers stirred next. They prayed, ate, and then he kissed his mother on the cheek.

  It was just past six. The school gate would close at seven thirty. Usually, he would have had no extra time, but today he woke earlier, and some water had been left in the drum from yesterday. He decided to walk.

  The fog hung along the roadside, droplets dripping from leaves. The ground was cool and soft under his slippers. Dust and earth were more solid after last night’s rain, but slippery in patches. The rice fields stretched to the gray mountains, and the forest behind a teacher’s house stood thick and dark. Fruit trees leaned toward the road, and Wiles plucked a guava to eat as he walked.

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  A few dogs noticed him. Some barked sharply, tails stiff, and he stepped carefully to avoid startling them. Others were hesitant but wagged slowly. Wiles crouched for those he could approach, patting their heads and backs, letting his hands brush lightly against their stomachs once they relaxed. He didn’t know most of them well, but he had managed to calm a few over time. By the time he continued, their soft barks faded behind him.

  His arms ached slightly, his biceps reminding him of the morning’s effort, and his stomach still pulled at him from the pre-sleep exercises. He smiled quietly, flexing and pressing a hand gently against his side. The aches were familiar, like reminders that he was alive and capable.

  The fog thinned as the sun pushed upward. Students passed on motorcycles and tricycles, calling to him. He waved them off. The walk felt good, and money mattered. Besides, he liked the effort of moving with his own strength.

  At last, he reached the town border and the bridge over the river. Houses along the way were a mix of cement and wood. His own home followed the same pattern, the wooden part used only to cover the window’s hole. Everyone paused at the bridge to look over the sides, but Wiles didn’t. Not yet. Something else caught his eye.

  A rainbow arched across the pale sky, closer than any he had seen before. His stomach tightened. Science and stories collided in his mind: refraction of light, droplets in the air, promises, and old tales of rivers losing water to color.

  It looked so close. Too close.

  He wanted to try, at least once for himself, to see if it was possible to reach the end.

  He knew the risk. Missing first period. Missing second. Angering his mother. The stick. Disappointment.

  Still, curiosity pulled harder.

  He carefully lowered himself from the bridge wall to the riverbank. The cement was slick in places, but he managed the descent without slipping. A bamboo raft floated nearby, the same one younger children often played with. He stepped onto it and pushed off, using a long stick to guide himself. The current was gentle this season, shallow enough to keep control.

  The rainbow shimmered ahead.

  Houses lined up above, people bathing or washing clothes on the side. Some glanced at him, but none interfered. He drifted silently, careful and polite.

  The raft ride was short. He left it tied behind at the shallow spot where others usually moored theirs. As using it further would be a hassle for the owners.

  He climbed up a dirt pathway along the riverside and continued tracing the river.

  He pressed on despite hesitation, rising fatigue, and heat. Then he felt it, a subtle shift in the air, the world dampening around him. Cautiously, he looked closer. The sight wavered like heat rising off a rooftop, shimmering and bending the light.

  He hurried down to the riverbank again. The water was shallow here, and he strode toward the flickering patch, uncaring of wetness or cold. Passing through it felt like stepping through a membrane, and suddenly he saw it.

  A pulsing, condensed amalgamation of color spread before him, turning the world gray at the edges. Shapes and light twisted, ever shifting, pulsing with rising intensity.

  Entranced, Wiles moved forward despite the constant ringing in his ears and mind, his vision swimming as blood surged to his head. When a tendril of the shifting light brushed him, he collapsed instantly, drool escaping his lips. The rainbow continued pulsing for a moment longer before vanishing entirely.

  Days passed. Wiles’ parents searched, eyewitnesses spoke of what they had seen, but he was nowhere to be found. Some said he had drowned in the river, others whispered he had been taken by fairies or river mermaids. In the end, Wiles became a cautionary tale for children...