Noah’s face tightened.
“My father believed so.”
By afternoon, the inspectors reached the passage marked on the map.
No one entered the deeper chamber until additional supports were installed.
The waiting became its own kind of trial.
Anna called her sister in Ohio and told her enough to explain what was happening.
She did not tell her everything.
Not yet.
Some truths needed to be understood before they were repeated.
Lily collected smooth stones near the shelter and arranged them from smallest to largest.
Colter watched her for a while.
“Making something?”
“A road.”
“To where?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“That’s a familiar kind of road.”
Lily studied him.
“Do you have kids?”
“One daughter.”
“How old?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“That’s old.”
Colter smiled.
“I’ll let her know.”
“Does she ride motorcycles?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Good question.”
“Did you teach her?”
“I tried.”
“She hated it.”
“Did she fall?”
“No.”
“Then why did she hate it?”
Colter paused.
“Maybe because it was mine.”
Lily looked confused.
Colter smiled.
“Children eventually want things that belong to themselves.”
“My mom says I can’t have a phone until I’m older.”
“That may be the wisest thing I’ve heard all day.”
Lily returned to her stones.
Colter stepped away and took out his own phone.
He stared at his daughter’s name.
MAE.
Their last conversation had been twelve days earlier.
Friendly.
Brief.
Careful.
They had become experts at careful conversations after her mother died.
Neither wanted to mention grief.
So neither mentioned much of anything important.
He typed a message.
Saw a little girl today who reminded me that being scared and being brave can happen at the same time.
He deleted it.
He tried again.
Thinking about you.
Deleted that too.
Finally he wrote two words.
Love you.
He sent them before he could reconsider.
The reply came less than a minute later.
Love you too, Dad.
And beneath it:
You okay?
Colter stared at those words for a long time.