Mjolnir was back by the gas well, watching the rhythmic motion of the pump moving up and down, toying with a vole he had caught in the tall grass above the branch. He had been careful to avoid the oily film that seeped up out of the well, blackening the grass for 4 feet around the pump before it filtered down into the branch. The oily sheen always apparent on the water beside the pump was pretty much dissipated by the time the little creek flowed past Aunt Cathy's house. Only during long dry spell spells, when the flow of the branch was greatly reduced, could one see, and sometimes smell, the oily residue as it washed on down the branch toward Paint Creek.   

Cathy kept the great grandkids away from the branch during those times. Other times, she would help them make little boats from reeds and leaves to set sail down the little branch. Cathy would make up stories for the children about how the boats would sail on down into Paint Creek, then to the Kanawha River and on to the Ohio and Mississippi, until they would at last sail out into the Gulf of Mexico, having had many challenges and adventures along the way.

When Aunt Cathy fell, Mjolnir jumped like he had been touched by a cattle prod, then took off running, hard, toward the house.