Every time they dug up the road, Rue stopped walking.
"What's under there?" she asked.
Her mom tugged her hand. "Pipes and stuff. Come on, we'll be late."
But Rue didn't want "pipes and stuff." She wanted to know.
On Monday, the diggers came to Maple Street. Big yellow machines with teeth that bit into the ground. CHUNK. CHUNK. CHUNK. The road cracked open like a chocolate shell, and underneath — dirt. Dark, crumbly, wonderful dirt.
"What's under the road?" Rue asked the worker in the orange vest.
He wiped his forehead. "Pipes."
"What kind of pipes?"
"Water pipes."
"What's under the water pipes?"
He laughed. "More dirt, kid."
Rue frowned. That couldn't be all.
On Wednesday, they dug up the road by the bakery. Rue pressed her face against the fence so hard it left little squares on her cheeks.
This hole was deeper. She could see a fat pipe, cracked and dark, and water dripping out of it like a runny nose. She could see rocks — not regular rocks, but flat ones packed together like a puzzle somebody started a long time ago.
"What's under that?" she asked her dad.
He was looking at his phone. "Hmm? Oh. Dirt, probably."
"You don't actually know," said Rue.
Her dad put his phone in his pocket. He looked at the hole. He looked at Rue.
"No," he said. "I don't actually know."
On Saturday, Rue got a spoon from the kitchen drawer. She went to the backyard. She started to dig.
Tink. Tink. Tink.
First came grass. Then soft brown dirt. Then harder dirt with little stones in it. Then a worm — pink and wriggly — and Rue said, "Hello, do you know what's under the road?" The worm did not answer. It curled into a tiny letter C and disappeared.
She dug deeper. Her spoon hit something hard. She brushed the dirt away, very carefully, the way she'd seen people do on TV.
It was a piece of blue china. Smooth on one side, rough on the other. Part of a plate, maybe. From some kitchen that used to be here. From somebody who ate breakfast right where Rue was digging, a long, long time ago.
She held it up. It had one tiny painted flower on it. Just one.
Her dad came outside. "Whatcha got?"
"A piece of somebody's plate," said Rue. "It was under the yard."
Her dad knelt down. He turned it over in his hands. "Huh," he said. And then quieter: "Huh."
"There's always something under," said Rue. "Under the road, under the yard, under everything. Pipes and rocks and old plates and worms and things nobody even remembers."
Her dad sat all the way down in the grass, right next to the hole. He didn't check his phone. He didn't say they'd be late.
"What do you think is under that?" he asked, pointing deeper into the little hole.
Rue grinned.
She picked up her spoon.
That night, the piece of blue china sat on Rue's windowsill. The dirt was washed off. The tiny flower caught the moonlight. Outside, somewhere down the street, a big yellow machine sat quiet and still, waiting to bite into the road again on Monday.
Rue pulled her blanket up. She wiggled her toes, which still had dirt between them.
Under her bed was the floor. Under the floor was the foundation. Under the foundation was the earth, going down and down and down, full of things she hadn't found yet.
She closed her eyes and smiled.
Tink. Tink. Tink.
