By June, the river had shrunk to a ribbon.
By July, it was barely a thread.
The village had never seen it this dry. Old Mr. Hollis, who was eighty-four, said he hadn't seen it this low since he was a boy — and even then, it had recovered by August.
This time, August came and the thread became a row of pools, then puddles.
Maya watched the fish. There were fewer each week. The herons stood at the edges of the puddles, patient and still.
She made a map. Where the pools were deepest. Where the fish were concentrated. She brought it to the village meeting.
They couldn't fill the river. But they could give what was left a chance.
They built shade structures over the largest pools to slow evaporation. They diverted a field irrigation channel to keep one pool flowing. They fenced off an area so animals could drink without disturbing the fish.
The river didn't recover that summer.
But in the spring, when the rains finally came, they found the river full of small fish, hatching from eggs that had waited all through the dry season in the mud.
Maya stood in the cold water up to her knees.
Waiting, she thought, is its own kind of strength.