Source A: The line across the allotments

The barrier was already there when I arrived: a grey wall laid across the valley, blunt as a ruler on a map. Beyond it, the allotments shone after rain. The sheds leaned at their familiar angles; a red watering can lay on its side beside the path. I had come to see the new flood gate tested, and I told myself I was there to watch a machine do its work.

At the control room window, the engineer explained what the barrier was for. When the river rose, the gate could hold back water from the streets and houses below. He pointed to the levels marked on a board. His voice was calm, almost ordinary, as if he were describing a timetable. I understood the figures. I also knew what the water would cover first.

A few people had gathered by the fence. Mr Patel, who had grown tomatoes there for as long as I could remember, stood with his hands folded over the top rail. He did not look at the gate. He looked past it, towards the row of plots, where the small greenhouse still caught the light. No one said anything. The silence seemed to stretch farther than the wall.

The test began with a low mechanical shudder. The gate shifted, slowly enough for me to notice every inch. I wanted it to work. I pictured the water kept from the houses, the children asleep upstairs, the dry pavement outside the school. Then I saw the red watering can again, absurdly bright against the wet earth, and wished the gate would stop.

It moved into place with a heavy clank. The engineer smiled, and I found myself smiling too. The town would be safer. But when I turned back towards the plots, the barrier had made them look like somewhere I could no longer reach. I had come expecting to judge a piece of engineering. Instead, I left carrying two answers: the gate was needed, and I still hated what it would take from us.