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She braced her hands on the pipe, preparing to push herself upright, but a pale stick of some sort propped against the rocky ledge at the base of the ravine caught her eye. She squinted at the object, trying to recall where she’d seen it before. Remembrance dawned. It was the bone that Daddy’s old shepherd dog, Rex, had dragged home close to three years back. For a while, Daddy carried it with him. “To warn off critters,” he’d said with a wink, waving the chunky length of bone like a baseball bat. He must have tossed it aside on one of his treks.

She slid from the pipe on the upward slope side of the ravine, climbed the rocky rise to the bone, and picked it up. She ran her finger along its edge. Warm from the sun and smooth, almost like polished wood. Such a funny bone, unlike anything she or her parents had seen before. Daddy had decided it was from a bear’s leg. Jennie wasn’t so sure. But maybe if she showed it to him, it’d remind him of old Rex. Maybe bring a smile. Sadness pricked. She missed Daddy’s smile.

Carrying the bone with her, she returned to the pipeline. She laid it up on top of the pipe and then pulled herself up. So awkward, getting herself onto the pipe—first flopping on her belly, then swinging her legs around and sitting up, and finally standing. It’d been a lot easier when Daddy grabbed her hand and pulled her up behind him. She’d taken a few falls back when she was learning to get herself up there. But after all these many months of walking the route alone, she’d mastered mounting the pipe. Within seconds, she started off again, the bone propped on her shoulder like a fishing pole. 

As she moved steadily forward, she reminded herself to change the way she’d written the date on the note she’d made. If Mama sent the weekly report in on the train with the date written wrong, the waterway men might figure out somebody other than Claude Ward was making the reports. Her family couldn’t risk any of those men snooping around and discovering the truth—that the linewalker’s daughter was doing the job instead. For twenty-two months already, her family had kept the secret. They couldn’t let it slip now. 

If the men found out Daddy wasn’t walking the line, they’d fire him. If they fired him, she, Mama, and Daddy would have to leave their little house perched on a pie slice shaped plateau above the pipeline and move to town. Her feet slowed to a stop, her thoughts racing. If they lived in town, it wouldn’t just be once-a-month visits to Aunt Delia and Uncle Prime—she’d be able to see them every day if she chose. No more isolation—she could make friends and be carefree like other girls her age. No more walking the seven miles of pipe from one end to the other every day no matter the weather.

Her heart gave a hopeful flutter. 

What was she thinking? Daddy didn’t dare lose this job. Who else would hire a man who sat in his chair all day and stared morosely out the window? Where would she and her parents live if they got kicked out of the house the waterway men provided as part of Daddy’s pay? Aunt Delia and Uncle Prime couldn’t take all of them in, and her folks didn’t have money to rent a house. But maybe Mama could—No, Mama couldn’t get a job and support the family, because then who would take care of Daddy?

They needed the money from the waterway men. She shouldn’t entertain what-ifs about living in town, going to school, having a normal life. Not until Daddy was well again. But would Daddy ever be well again? Mama prayed for it every day. She told Jennie to pray, too, and Jennie had. For a full year. But not lately. If God hadn’t answered by now, He wasn’t going to. Mama could waste her time imploring Him, but Jennie was done. 

The pipe began to vibrate beneath her soles. She stopped and shifted, looking toward the curve where the train that ran between Salida and Pueblo would appear. How many people behind the windows would wave at her today? The vibration increased, and the squeaks and rumbling noises of wheels on track reached her ears. First a whisper, then growing increasingly louder, until the train rounded the bend and almost seemed to bear straight at her. 

She curled her toes inside her boots and held her position, waiting until the engine passed before waving the bone back and forth like a flag, smiling at every person who lifted a hand in response to her wild greeting. Too quickly, she was watching the tail end of the caboose chug up the rails. Only five cars—the engine, three passenger cars, and a caboose—didn’t take much time to go by. But its appearance always gave her a lift. Her only contact, however insignificant, with people other than Mama and Daddy. 

Aiming a narrow-eyed glance upward, she said, “I sure would like to have a friend, God. If You’re gonna keep me here, walking this line for Daddy, could You at least send me a friend?” 

She heard the hint of sarcasm in her voice. Mama would be disappointed by it. Jennie’d been taught to be respectful to her parents, to other people, and most especially to the almighty God. But her tumultuous age sometimes got the better of her. If God was as forgiving as Mama said, He’d understand her momentary lapse into bitterness.