Wetland

He wedged the bar under the stake and pulled. The wood groaned, then surrendered. He tossed it into the reeds. He moved to the next, and the next. Each pop of loosened metal was a small, wet sound—like a frog’s leap, like a turtle sliding off a log.

He was supposed to sell it. The county had sent the letter—a pale, official thing that smelled of toner and finality. "Acquisition for Commercial Development," it read. A new marina, a strip of riverfront condos. Progress, they called it. To Elias, it sounded like a death sentence. wetland

“Hold on,” Elias grunted, swinging the punt around. He reached down, hauling the boy over the gunwale. The child shivered, reeds clinging to his wet jeans. He wedged the bar under the stake and pulled