Lena arrived at her grandmother's on the Silver River for the holidays. At dawn she carried a sketchbook and an old willow whistle. The mist lay low and something rustled in the reeds. Suddenly there was a short, whistling call. An otter emerged from the water, shiny and wet. It sat down on a stone and looked directly at Lena. "Have you got that whistle? That's good," - said the otter. "My name is Fika." Lena squatted down until she was impressed. "You say?" - she whispered. Fika nudged the pebble with her paw. "You can hear because you are listening. Come on, there's no time." They walked along the bank where the water was gnawing the ground under an old bridge. A wooden box was stuck between the beams, rocked by the current. A squeak came from inside, quiet and rushed. "There are my sisters," - hissed Fika, anxiously splashing her tail. "I won't push off on my own, my paws are slipping." Lena knelt on the wet board and surveyed the situation. A storm-fallen log formed a platform over the stream. A rust-stained weight was snapped to the crate with a snatched string. "If I undermine it, the crate will float," she - she said. Her fingers were cold, but her heart was beating evenly. The wind picked up and the bridge groaned in the posts. The first drop fell on Lena's cheek like a blade. Fika raised her muzzle. "Faster, the water is rising!" - she hissed. Lena slid onto the stump and grabbed the pole. A dark streak went with the current, like the shadow of a huge fish. The box jerked and squealed even louder. The stick wedged under the weight, the wood strained like a bow. Suddenly, the reeds squeaked behind and someone gasped quietly. The trunk twitched, as if something had just grabbed it underneath.