Tim McGregor

I’m told villagers used to toss pennies into it as a wishing well, back when the fishing was plentiful. People hold onto their pennies now. The coins are long gone, taken by the village boys who dove in to fetch them from the bottom of the fountain. All those wishes, stolen by naked, shivering boys.

He is absentminded, with a potato-shaped head that leaks things

Her brazen freedom offends them somehow.