“After they find it?”
“Maybe.”
“Sunny found it.”
I smiled.
“Maybe.”
She hugged him.
“I told you he was scared.”
Sunny licked her cheek.
The next four days passed quietly.
Then Saturday morning arrived.
Daniel went into town for lumber.
I was upstairs stripping wallpaper from the guest room.
Lucy sat at the kitchen table doing a school project about local history.
Her assignment was to bring in an object or photograph connected to the town’s past.
She had become obsessed with the brown bottle.
I told her she could bring it after we cleaned it.
She wanted to know where it came from.
“Probably trash.”
I said.
“That’s boring.”
“History is mostly people’s trash.”
She considered that.
Then asked:
“Can I take a picture of the old tree?”
“Yes.”
“From outside the fence.”
“Promise.”
“Sunny comes.”
“Of course.”
I watched her from the window as she walked toward the orchard.
Red jacket.
Jeans.
Rubber boots.
Sunny beside her.
I returned to wallpaper.
Ten minutes later, I heard barking.
Not unusual.
Then it continued.
Fast.
Sharp.
Relentless.
I put down the scraper.
“Lucy?”
No answer.
The barking became frantic.
I ran downstairs.
Opened the back door.
Sunny stood halfway between the house and orchard.
He saw me.
Turned.
Ran toward the orchard.
Stopped.
Looked back.
Barked.
Every instinct in me changed.
“Lucy!”
I ran.
Sunny raced ahead.
The red jacket was visible near the old apple tree.
Too close.
Inside the rope.
“Lucy!”
She turned.
“Mom!”
Then the ground moved.
There is no better way to describe it.
The grass beneath her right foot simply disappeared.
One second she stood.
The next she dropped.
Her scream cut through everything.
I saw her arms hit the edge.
Then half her body vanished.
Sunny reached her before I did.
He lunged.
Grabbed the back of her red coat.
Lucy slid farther.
The soil around the opening collapsed in chunks.
A black hole opened beneath her.
Sunny pulled backward.
His legs spread wide.
Claws tearing through mud.
Lucy screamed.
“Mom!”
“I’m coming!”
I ran.
Then stopped myself.
The ground.
If I rushed onto the same surface, it could collapse under both of us.
“Don’t move!”
I shouted.
Useless advice to an eight-year-old hanging over a hole.
Sunny growled.
Not at Lucy.
At the effort.
His jaw clenched around the fabric.
The coat stretched.
One sleeve pulled high against her shoulder.
Lucy’s hands clawed at wet grass.
I dropped onto my stomach several feet back.
Crawled.
Slowly.
Weight distributed.
“Sunny.”