Cob and the Stone That Smelled Like Rain

Cob kept his stones in a tin that used to hold crackers. There were seven stones inside, and he knew every single one. The small grey one came from the park puddle. The rough orange one came from the path by the big pine tree. The flat white one — his favourite — came from the bottom of the fountain on Lark Street.

But tonight, Cob had a problem. The flat white stone was gone.

He checked the tin. He checked his coat pocket. He checked under his pillow. Not there, not there, not there. He felt a little worried. Then he remembered: he had put it down on the counter at the midnight bakery, the one with the yellow door, when he went to smell the bread.

The midnight bakery only opened when the moon was all the way up. Cob pulled on his boots.

Pemba was already outside, sitting on the step in her big woolly hat, eating a roll. Pemba lived next door and baked her own bread on weekends, which meant she thought a lot about bread. "Where are you going?" she said.

"The midnight bakery," said Cob. "I left my stone."

Pemba brushed a crumb off her knee. "That is a long walk in the dark."

"I know," said Cob.

Pemba stood up. "I will come," she said. "I want to see if they have the seeded kind tonight."

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*Pemba's side of things:*

The street was quiet and smelled like wet leaves and cold air. Pemba liked walking at night. Everything looked a little different — softer, somehow, like the edges had been rubbed away. She could hear Cob's tin clinking in his coat pocket with every step.

She had not said this to Cob, but she was a little worried too. What if the stone was not there? She knew how much the fountain stone meant to him. He had told her once that it was so smooth because rivers rub the rough parts off, slowly, over years and years. She had thought about that for a long time afterwards.

The yellow door appeared at the end of the lane. Light leaked out from underneath it, warm and orange, like the inside of something alive.

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*Cob's side of things:*

Cob pushed the door open. The bakery smelled like honey and rosemary and something toasty he could not name. The baker, a tall woman named Stef, was sliding a tray of small loaves into the oven. She had flour on her elbow.

"A stone?" said Stef, when Cob asked. She did not seem surprised at all. "White, very flat, a little bit shiny?"

"Yes," said Cob.

Stef reached under the counter and placed it in his hand. "I put it safe," she said. "I could tell it was important."

Cob held it. It was cool and smooth and exactly right. He had not known, until just now, that he had been holding his breath.

Pemba appeared at his elbow. "They do have the seeded kind," she said happily. She held up a small round roll. "Stef, will you wrap two more? One for Cob."

They walked home slowly. Cob had the stone in his left hand and the roll in his right. He ate the roll in four bites. The stone he kept hold of the whole way.

At the corner where their street began, Pemba said, "Which one is it from again? The fountain?"

"The fountain on Lark Street," said Cob. "The water wore it down. It took a very long time."

Pemba nodded like she was storing it away somewhere. Above them, the moon was right in the middle of the sky, and the wet pavement shone like the inside of a shell.