Knee-deep is a story the edge tells.

Two steps in, the Lynne puts a hand on you. It is not wicked. It is water with somewhere to be. You leave your pole. You become a traveler in the current, which is not the pilgrimage you meant.

A willow on a downstream bank catches you like a cousin with opinions. You are on mud, coughing, whole, cold in the bandage-and-bruise way. Hop, if he had started to follow, is still on the bank because Jennet has arms.

You wait for Bram, who finds you because ferry-men look downriver when the ford is a liar. He does not lecture. He puts a cloak. Your pride sits in a puddle.

Saint Elswith happens elsewhere. You happen on a bank.

Willow roots hold more than soil. They hold you. You spit river, count your fingers, count them again. Bram’s hull appears like a scold. He hauls you in without theater. The ford keeps its brown face. You do not.

THE END

What you learned: a ford is seasonal shallows, not a personality. In spate, current is stronger than a feast; sound with a pole, and do not wade a brown river because the edge looks kind.