By noon, the pale line in Dovel’s pit had fallen below the lowest mark.
Not vanished. A wet deposit remained against the clay, and the shallow bottom held more than anyone intended to scrape out with bare hands. But the stored water no longer stood ready to escape through the next storm’s small mistake.
Korl stopped his repaired pump and opened the relief into the lined catch tray.
The female operator beside him, a quiet carrier named Maret Dunn, checked the outlet before reaching for the connection. Two days of work had given her back the straight stroke she remembered from before the diaphragm began leaking. She kept touching the dry lower rim with her cloth, apparently expecting the old wet line to return.
It did not.
Iven helped support the final filled container while the local crew changed its transfer cover for a traveling cap. The work had been planned in that order. A second tray waited beneath the connection, and Korl had both physical blanking pieces within reach.
A gust pushed the thin residual stream against the cap’s edge before Maret could settle it.
“Hold a breath,” Iven said.
