The evening air was warm and smelled of roasted lamb. Mother had just cleared the wooden table, and Grandfather sat near the hearth with Steve and Kynthos.
"Before we sleep," Grandfather said, leaning on his staff, "I have a question for you both. What is the worst thing that could happen tomorrow?"
Steve groaned. He hated this game. "Why do we always have to talk about bad things? It ruins the evening."
Kynthos hugged his knees, looking a bit scared. "A giant boar could break the fence and eat all our cabbages."
"And if it does?" Grandfather asked.
"Then... we would have to eat turnips all winter," Kynthos whispered. "But we wouldn't starve."
"Exactly," Grandfather smiled. "And what else?"
Steve refused to answer. He crossed his arms and looked at the fire. "Nothing bad is going to happen."
Two days later, the brothers went to fetch water for Mother's cooking. Steve lowered the heavy wooden bucket into the stone well. It hit the bottom with a dry, hollow thud. He pulled it up. Empty.
Steve panicked. "The well is dry! The garden will die! We won't have any water for the soup!" He ran back and forth in the dirt, completely overwhelmed by the sudden disaster.
Kynthos, however, simply picked up his smaller bucket. "It's okay, Steve. Grandfather asked me what I would do if the well dried up yesterday. He showed me the old spring past the olive grove."
Steve stopped running. "He did?"
Kynthos nodded. "We just have to walk a little farther today."
When they returned with full buckets, Grandfather was waiting. Steve looked at the water, then at his grandfather.
"You knew the well was going to dry up," Steve said.
"I suspected it," Grandfather replied. "But even if I hadn't, the lesson remains. The mind that has already visited the storm does not panic when it arrives. You do not rehearse disaster to invite it—you rehearse it so it cannot ambush you."
