My friend Ben and I loved jumping in puddles; our mothers despaired of our damp and muddy clothes. One day, Ben jumped into a puddle on the footpath and sank up to his armpits.
“Help me,” he screamed. “Something is pulling me down.”
I grabbed at his hand, but I was too late. He disappeared into its depths. I ran for help, but no one believed me. Later that day, when the puddle dried up, it revealed no pit. Just ordinary footpath.
Now days, I don’t jump into puddles. I gaze into them, looking for Ben. I haven’t found him.
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