The hammer rang once. A spark jumped off the anvil and did not go out. It waited. They followed.

The ferry horn blew once. This time Lan didn't wait for Beto to say what it meant. She was at the rail before the rope was off.

Gullwick came out of the fog. There was the first span, solid and dry, with FAIR carved on its last plank. Then came the second gap, full of rushing water.

"Seven planks for this one," said Poppa Pike. "It's shorter than the first. But the Commons is empty after last time, and nobody has spares."

"Then where do we get them?" asked Beto.

Poppa Pike smiled. "It's Drift Day."

On the long beach, the islanders had marked out patches with painted stones. Each patch had a number on a stick, from two to twelve. The stick for seven had snapped once and been mended with a twist of wire, and beside the wire somebody had scratched a tiny hammer.

"After a storm, the tide brings driftwood," said Lucky the ladybird. "Twelve tides today. Each tide rolls the wood like two dice, and a plank lands in the patch with that number. But a plank only stays if somebody is watching that patch. Nobody watching? The next wave takes it back."

"I'll watch seven," said Lucky. "Six ways to make seven."

The first tide came in. A plank landed on six. The second tide brought a plank to seven, and Lucky caught it.

"Seven is the best patch," said Lan. "I promise we'll get all seven planks from the seven patch. Quick, everybody stand on seven!"

So everybody stood on seven: Lan, Beto, Lucky and three curious rabbits.

The third tide brought a plank to eight. Nobody was watching eight. The plank bobbed for a moment, and then the next wave took it away. The fourth tide landed on five, and that plank floated off too.

Lan looked at the empty patches and felt her ears go hot. She had counted on seven every time. Seven had not come every time.

"Most isn't the same as always," said Beto quietly.

A round beetle in a green jumper came over with a bucket of shells. This was Dot.

"Count every way, not just the first one," said Dot. "Let me write it down."

Dot laid out the shells in pairs on the sand. One and one. One and two. Two and one. Every pair two dice could make.

"One and six is one way. Six and one is another," said Dot. "Thirty-six ways in all."

Then Dot counted the sevens. There were six. Sixes had five. Eights had five. Two had only one, and so did twelve.

"So seven is most," said Lan. "But six and eight are nearly as good."

"Careful, careful, one pair at a time," said Dot, and counted again to be sure.

A small spotted beetle hopped onto the pile. Her name was Petal.

"The more ways, the taller it grows," said Petal. She pushed the shells into piles, one pile for each total. The piles made a hill, low at both ends and tallest in the middle.

"Look at the hill, not the top of it," said Petal. "Six, seven and eight together have sixteen ways. That's nearly half of all of them. Spread out along the hill!"

So they spread out. Lucky stayed on seven. Beto stood on six. Lan stood on eight.

The tides came in, one after another.

Seven! Lucky caught it. Nine came next, and nobody was there. Then eight, and Lan caught that one. Six went to Beto. Seven again, for Lucky. Three floated away. Eight, and Lan grabbed it.

Lucky had caught three planks altogether. Lan and Beto had caught three between them.

"Six," said Beto. "One short."

The sun was low. Only one tide was left. Lan looked down the long beach to the very end, where patch two sat by itself.

"Two never comes," said Lan. "It only has one way."

Somebody was sitting in patch two. It was a snail in a striped knitted hat, surrounded by little flowers. He had been there all day.

"I'll wait. I'm good at waiting," said Twobble. "Two is a fine number."

"But it hardly ever comes," said Lan.

"Not never. Just not often," said Twobble.

Lan stopped. She thought about Dot's shells. Two had one way out of thirty-six. That was not many. But it was not none.

"One tide," she said slowly. "One plank. And it could land on any patch. The hill says where it will probably go. It doesn't say where it will go."

So Lan did not run back to eight. She sat down on two, beside Twobble, and waited.

The last tide rolled up the beach. The wood tumbled. It settled.

One and one.

A long plank slid into patch two, right in front of Twobble. Then the wave began to pull it back.

Twobble lifted one foot, very slowly, the way a snail does. Lan was quicker. She put her foot on the plank.

"My patch is quiet, not empty," said Twobble.

"Six and one makes seven," said Beto.

"Everybody lays one," said Poppa Pike.

Lucky laid one. Petal and Dot laid one together. Beto laid one. Poppa Pike laid two. Lan laid one. Twobble laid the last, very slowly, and nobody minded.

When Lan turned the last plank over, a word was carved on the end. It said LIKELY.

"Likely isn't always," said Lan. "And rare isn't never."

The second span held. The ferry horn blew twice. Home.

The spark dimmed to a warm dot and settled back on the anvil. The Green was just the Green again.

Back on the Green

That evening Lan played a board game with Tí and Grandmother. Lan needed a seven to win. She rolled a four.

Then Tí rolled one and one, and jumped up and down.

"Rare isn't never," said Lan, and she laughed instead of sulking.

Tell the story back to someone in your own words. Then roll two dice twenty times and keep a tally. Which total came up most?